


Take Me Somewhere Nice

by mozalieri



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Assassins & Hitmen, Bad Jokes, Calling The Guy You Love an Angel Over and Over, Character Death, Character Growth, Composing, Crying, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Antonio Salieri, I promise, Idiots in Love, Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, Leopold Mozart's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mozart In A Dress, Overuse of Horse Jokes, POV Alternating, Parent Death, Princes & Princesses, Sexual Content, Sickness, Song references, Stabbing, Swords, The Marriage of Figaro, This is a Lot for a One-Shot, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 02:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15160340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozalieri/pseuds/mozalieri
Summary: Mozart is a prince. Salieri might just be his knight.





	Take Me Somewhere Nice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yewgrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yewgrove/gifts).



> cheesy and cliche royalty au for [mo](http://mozalieri.tumblr.com/)! sorry it took a while, i didn't expect this to get so long! ^.^"
> 
> please make sure you read the tags + warnings, & sorry on advance for any weird grammar or spelling!

The tower isn’t big, but that has never particularly bothered him. He can work in the dark, play blindfolded. Small, cramped places have never bothered him. He is afraid of the dark, but he has always been one to light a candle.

He doesn’t get letters often either, and, when he does, they are always from the same person. That one _does_ bother him, just a bit. Mozart has always liked _people_. He has always been sort of a social butterfly, and this tower, its walls— they don’t only keep him in, but they keep everyone else out.

The letters, though. They are always from his sister, which is why he is sure that the lack of human contact bothers him less.

His sister, Nannerl, is lovely, beautiful, and kind. She misses him as much as he misses her, and she keeps him updated on just about everything that he cannot figure out on his own from within the tower.

(Which is, of course, everything. There is nothing for miles around, and he is lucky to even catch a glimpse of fireworks when the kingdom is celebrating.)

The sound of the bell— the one that lets him know that someone is outside the tower to make a delivery— sounds like what he imagines the choirs of heaven must sound like. It gives him _hope_. Someone is only a bell away, and yes, sometimes, he loathes the place. Sometimes he wishes that, when the messenger boy comes to give him his parcels and send out his letters, he could leap down into his basket and be carried away.

He has even blown kisses to the messenger boy in hopes that he will have some sort of pity, maybe climb the tower and come up and—

And, well, Mozart has his thoughts. He has been alone for _far_ too long, just him and his music.

His music, yes. He may be alone, but he has Nannerl’s letters, and he has his music.

And, well, he has his life. But— really, what kind of life is it?

His father sent him away to this tower when he was younger. It was not too long ago, but long enough for him to feel like centuries have passed.

His mother died of a mysterious illness that Mozart had contracted as well.

He would die if he went outside for too long, and, if he stayed with his sister, she’d surely contract the disease. Then she would die, too, and he did not want that, did he?

He’d overheard his father and sister talking about it, just once before he was sent away.

‘ _Maria Anna, you don’t want your brother to die, do you?_ ’ He’d overheard his father say, followed by Nannerl’s quick replies, saying no, no, she did _not_.

It was and is for his own good, really, but he doesn't _feel_ sick. He never has.

Just lonely. Just incredibly and terribly lonely.

Still, he has his music, his life, and he has his family’s love. For someone who is unable to go outside, or to be around others, it is enough. It has to be enough.

He writes letters to Nannerl, sends her his pieces, but she never sends them back. It is odd, but he supposes he has never really asked for them to be returned anyway. It is likely that she keeps all of them, perhaps she even plays them for their father. She is talented as well, gifted in music and incredible on the piano from what he remembers.

Oh, how he misses hearing her play.

The messenger boy comes in the morning, and that is how Mozart remembers what day it is. He is pulled from his thoughts at the sound of the bell, and he sends the basket down, his letters already dropped in it from the night before.

“Yoohoo!~” Mozart sings, waving down at the messenger boy. Mozart can’t quite see his face, but he sees how he ducks his head, works a little faster.

Despite his attempts to flirt with him, his blown kisses, the young man is not having any of it.

As per usual. He takes Mozart’s letters when he drops them down, sends Nannerl’s parcels up, and he is gone without so much as a wave.

How cold.

Mozart hurriedly pulls up the basket and removes Nannerl’s gifts.

As he reads Nannerl’s letter, he nibbles on the fruit she has included in the package for him. Sweet— she has always sent him only the best.

The news portion of her letter is the usual: what is going on, who has visited the kingdom, and the like. However, one line strikes him as odd, crossed out, followed by a little apology.

He squints at the letter, puts it in the light, and he tries to read the scratched out line anyway.

Mozart cannot make out all of the words, but it certainly does not seem good. In fact, it seems that Nannerl is incredibly worried about _something_. He purses his lips, crosses a leg over his knee.

He tries to think of what it could be, what could be troubling his sister so much that she could not even share it with him. Perhaps she is being married soon? Nannerl has never liked men, and he cannot imagine that sitting well with her.

Their father— he would not do that, though, would he? It always seemed that he thought no one was good enough for either of his children…

Perhaps something else has happened.

Either way, Mozart decides to write something for her in the hopes that it will get her mind off of it. Or at least make her feel better.

Mozart hurries over to the bookshelf, and he looks through the assortment of books he has accumulated in this time. Plays, mostly— that is what interests him. And he needs something uplifting, something that will take Nannerl’s spirits and raise them.

The Marriage of Figaro. It stands out to him, though it is between two other books, and he removes it from the bookcase. It is a good story, full of revolutionary ideals, but that is not what he wants to bring to life.

The story itself— it touched him deeply the first time he read it, and he has wanted to compose for it anyway. He wants to bring to life the rifts in human passions, the rebellion of a free man.

It fits Nannerl, too. The rebellion of someone so free— oh, he may be the one in the tower, but she is the one he wishes he could liberate.

He holds the book to his chest, closes his eyes, and imagines his sister’s face.

When he was younger, Nannerl would smile when one of his pieces sounded particularly good. Of course, she always enjoyed them— that smile was basically always there— but it also made him feel… well, some sort of way. He knew that if Nannerl smiled at a piece of his music, then it was _good_. Even if it was not good enough for their father, even if he was not allowed to perform it at any ball or court.

If Nannerl liked it, then it was _good_.

Mozart pictures her in his head, hums a tune for her, something that he has in mind for The Marriage of Figaro.

He imagines her smiling and hurries over to his desk to get to work.

The Marriage of Figaro takes him some time to compose, of course. He is _only_ a composer, not a librettist, but in this tower, he must be both. It is not like he has anyone else to write for him, no one to even look over the pieces and give him their feedback.

So, Mozart must do all these things, all alone. But that is just fine.

He has nothing else to do, after all, nothing to do but read and write music. If he was not a librettist before, he will learn to be. If he ever doubted himself, he will learn not to.

So, it takes time, yes. But still, it is done.

And it is sent, bound together with string and another blown kiss and wink to the messenger boy.

The messenger boy still hurries off without even a goodbye, but Mozart is too excited for his sister to get his opera to even _care_.

He knows that he will not hear from her right away, and instead busies himself with rereading her letters, reading his books, just as he has always busied himself. Mozart thinks about different things, jots down more music, and even starts another opera in the meantime. And this time, when he thinks about his family back at home, his heart flutters with love in his chest.

In one of her recent letters, Nannerl had mentioned, though briefly, that their father had played one of his pieces.

He imagines his father and Nannerl at the grand piano in their castle, singing and playing a song that Mozart himself wrote. He imagines them smiling, saying that Mozart’s penmanship has certainly not been improved since being stowed away. He imagines his father saying that there are too many notes, only to be gently nudged by Nannerl. He imagines her telling their father that that is what makes the music so beautiful, so Mozart.

Mozart imagines their father nodding in agreement.

In his next letter, surely, he will ask her for more information. He wants to know everything, everything from the way it sounded on the grand piano to the way their father’s face looked. The thoughts alone make his heart full, help him through the span of time that seems to drag on between when he’d sent Nannerl Figaro to the day she responds. 

But those thoughts keep him going anyway, even as Nannerl’s letter comes later than expected.

The letter comes a whole week after Nannerl’s letters usually do. It is already midday, not the ideal time for him to get letters, when he hears the bell ring to let him know that someone is outside the tower.

Eager, Mozart hurries to the window. The same messenger boy is there, holding a basket of gifts from Nannerl and, more importantly, her letter. He lowers his own basket, the letter that he wrote about their father placed in it from the night before.

And, well, he basically hauls up what the messenger drops into the basket as fast as possible, simply thrilled to read what Nannerl had to say about his work.

He is _so_ excited to read it that he even forgets to blow a kiss to the messenger boy, let alone wink at him.

“Mozart!” The messenger boy calls up, just as Mozart is ducking his head back into the tower.

Mozart pauses, then peeks back out, confused. He looks at the messenger boy and waves slowly, not used to the other man paying him any mind.

“Bravo!” The messenger boy says with a smile, then hops on his horse. He is already galloping off before Mozart can question it, can ask why he was here at midday instead of in the morning, why Nannerl’s letter was so late. 

_Bravo_ , Mozart thinks, thankful but confused. He looks at the letter in his hand. Maybe something happened in the kingdom? Hopefully nothing bad…

Whatever it is, surely Nannerl will have explained in the letter.

Mozart has been too excited to eat, so he nibbles on a bit of bread as he opens Nannerl’s letter. He unfolds it, notes the way her letters are bigger, look more excited. He immediately perks up, lets his eyes scan the page.

Nannerl had shown The Marriage of Figaro to their father, and he had even played a bit. They will begin performances soon, and— Oh, Nannerl had gotten so many compliments for her to pass on to her brother. She mentions that their father is not the most pleased by that part, but so be it.

Mozart’s mind doesn’t linger on that, and, before he knows it, his eyes reach the bottom of the page.

‘ _Bravo, Wolfgang!_ ’ the bottom of the page reads, and it is signed by her, the ‘I’ in _Maria Anna_ dotted with a heart.

Mozart holds the letter to his chest, blush creeping onto his face. He smiles softly, then grins so wide his face starts to hurt a bit.

“Yes!” He says, only to himself. He jumps up, bounces on his toes around the room.

A composer— and of an opera that people will _hear_! Even if he is all the way in this tower, far away from anyone, he is still reaching people. He is!

Mozart practically squeaks, ecstatic. He bounces around the room, just needing to get this energy out. At least a little, but _oh_ , there is no way that he could calm down now. He is not dancing alone in this room anymore— no, he is dancing with _Gods_. All but drunk, and _alive_. 

He plops into his bed on his back. The letter is still pressed to his chest, and he hugs it, sighs happily.

Mozart needs to thank Nannerl as soon as possible. How he wishes he could hug her and kiss her face, thank her more properly. But, music has proved more powerful than any words he could speak or sing. He hopes that she has listened to Figaro and felt the rebellion, the riffs in human passion that he wrote in just for her. He hopes she knows that this is all for her, that it is all thanks to her.

If she does not, then he will tell her. She deserves to know.

Mozart makes sure to mention it in his next letter to her, and, since there are no ‘I’s in his name, makes the A in _Mozart_ into a star instead.

~

Riffs in human passion, yes. The rebellion of a free man.

The story of the Marriage of Figaro had already been banned in the opposing kingdom, the opera written for it immediately banned just the same. Still, as it spread far and wide, it begun to stir up rumors in the other kingdom, plant seeds of distrust, and echo the whispers of revolution.

And that Mozart boy, oh, he is a troublemaker, isn’t he? Never seen by the public— no one even knows where he is— but still stirring up trouble.

Antonio Salieri is not someone who would die for his kingdom; no, Salieri is not that faithful to this place. If he had to choose between his own head and the king’s, he would choose his own.

Maybe it is selfish, and maybe it makes him a bad person, a horrible assassin for Rosenberg, the king.

But he has never once claimed to be a good person, and the only way he has been able to stay afloat in a river full of vipers is to be one himself.

He has nothing to lose.

And he has nothing to gain, either.

The only peace Salieri has ever found within himself has been when he has written music. He drowns his anxieties in it, rids himself of his own fears through the dissonance. He has done it since he was a small child, he believes. Probably, anyway, but he does not linger on any thoughts of the past. They have never done anything for him before, and he doesn’t expect them to any time soon.

His job is not to compose, anyway, nor to be happy. His job is to do what his king says, and what his king says—

“Find the prince, the man responsible for this… _this_ …” Rosenberg looks frustrated, up on his throne. He looks at war with himself, annoyed, but Salieri is not sure at exactly what. It almost seems like he is not annoyed with what he _should_ be annoyed with. “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Find him, and kill him, Salieri.”

Mozart has never done anything to him, but Salieri already loathes him, envies him. Just his existence is enough to get under Salieri’s skin.

Hidden away from others, yet composing, and doing so with some sort of power. Salieri has not listened to Figaro, no, it is banned, but he knows that Mozart’s music must be powerful, to stir up this much discord in such a short amount of time.

People are talking, there are rumors of revolution. And they are barely whispers or murmurs anymore. It is only a matter of time.

Does Mozart even have any idea what is happening past the walls of wherever he is hidden away? Does he know of the trouble he is causing for the rest of them?

It doesn’t matter in the end, nor do Salieri’s opinions on it. Even if he didn’t grimace at the idea of the young prince’s name being sung by the people of both kingdoms, he would be ordered to kill Mozart, anyway. 

Salieri would like to think he’d have more pity. He would like to believe that he would feel guilt at the _thought_ of killing Mozart, rather than the grief which he knows he will feel only _after_ taking someone’s life.

Impulsive, not so much. But regretful? Yes.

He doesn’t have any pity to spare.

“Yes, sir.” Salieri says, with a little bow.

And with that, he is unstoppable.

Salieri takes his horse, rides into the other kingdom late at night. The sun is asleep, and so is the rest of the kingdom, save for a few pubs, several stragglers who have yet to get the memo that it is time to go home. Perhaps they have no homes to go back to.

That is not an unfamiliar feeling to him. Salieri doesn’t dawdle on that thought, though, and instead rides to the castle.

He knows that Mozart will not be here, no. He must be hidden away somewhere; surely, that is why no one has seen him in quite some time, even while he's still composing.

Salieri watches the castle, takes note of those who come and go. Mostly deliveries, just people visiting. He catches a glimpse of the king at one point, decides that, even only by this single glance, that he is not fond of the other man.

And then, there is a girl there. The princess, Salieri assumes, Mozart’s older sister. She is dressed in blue, and her curls bounce as she does when she speaks to someone. A messenger. Of course.

She hands a letter off to the messenger, eyes bright and with the most loving, yet nurturing grin he has ever seen on another person.

No, no that is not right. 

Salieri recognizes the look. He _has_ seen it before. He has seen it in another’s face, in his brother’s when they were younger. Oh, where is his brother now?

Surely, he would not approve of the man Salieri has become.

So, he falters for just a moment, unsure if he is willing to kill anyone’s little brother, unsure if he is willing to force this girl he has never met to grieve like that.

But it is not his job to falter. It is not his job to feel pity for a big sister just because she smiles in the same manner that his brother did. It is not his business— he only has one thing to do here.

No, he does not have any room pity.

Salieri shakes his head to clear it, and, when the messenger rides off, letter in tow, Salieri follows.

~

Mozart does not receive his letter from Nannerl on time again. This isn’t a common occurrence, but it is becoming one. He assumes that she is busy, and he is not angry, but he misses her.

He misses the contact, even if it was not much. It is disappointing to not hear the bell when it usually rings.

It is disheartening.

Mozart reminds himself of the opera that his father and sister are allowing to be performed. His opera. His father is proud of him, and he is doing something _good_ even from within these walls.

He pictures his father and sister at the piano again, singing and playing.

The thought keeps him from being too sad. He could not be _too sad_ thinking about the smiles on their faces. He hopes they think of him soon as well and send him a letter.

Another _bravo_ from the messenger boy would be nice, too.

He decides that he would rather look forward to the future letter which he know he will receive than grieve the letter that has not arrived today. And with that, he gets ready for bed, climbs in and drifts off easily.

He is awakened, though, unexpectedly.

The bell rings, but not as softly as usual. It sounds less like the choirs of heaven when it is waking him up abruptly. Much too early, too, and Mozart jolts with it.

His sister’s letter did not arrive on time again, so he assumes this is it. But it is so _late_ , he notes as he gets up quickly, rubbing his eyes. The sun is not even awake yet, surely no one else is—

Before he can even finish his thoughts, he collides into something. Some _one_.

Mozart stumbles back a bit, rubs his cheek where it has hit what feels like maybe leather, something hard at least. He looks up at the other person in his tower.

He is a man, taller than Mozart, his hair tied back into a ponytail with two strands hanging in the front. He has a beard and a beauty mark on one cheek, incredibly handsome.

And he has a _sword_. Oh, Mozart realizes what is happening here, eyes wide and lips parted just so.

Quickly, he scrambles to his bedside table, grabs his crown. He puts it on his head, adjusts it, and he is about to kneel when he realizes that his knight is supposed to do that instead.

“Sir.” Mozart says, cheeks flushing, now from something more than sleep. He does a little curtsy, then decides that it is not _him_ enough. Instead, he bows dramatically, catches his crown just before it falls and adjusts it on his head again. “Prince Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, at your service.”

~

Salieri stares at the man before him, dumbfounded, almost.

“Mozart.” Salieri says, drawls out the ‘ah’ in a way that makes Mozart’s spine noticeably straighten. His voice is _murky_ , sounds the way ink drips.

“Yes, my knight?” Mozart asks, clasping his hands together in front of him.

His knight. Salieri was about half a step forward, but he stays where he is. Then, he lets out a little chuckle. It matches his voice, heavy, lingering— anything but friendly.

“My name is Antonio Salieri.” Salieri starts, unsure why he is bothering to introduce himself, but… Well, Mozart has done so already. He might as well return the favor before ending the young prince’s life. “I am no one’s knight.”

“Ah.” Mozart replies, confused. He looks past Salieri, “Did you climb in through the window?”

“Yes,” Salieri begins, then shakes his head. “That is unimportant. Mozart, I was sent here to—”

“It’s a long ways up.” Mozart hurries past Salieri, looks down from the tower window. “You climbed all that way, but you’re not a knight?”

“No, I’m not a knight.” Salieri pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks over at Mozart, realizes that he could, in theory, just push him out the window. He starts to make his way towards him, just walking slowly.

“Why would you climb all that way if you aren’t a knight?” Mozart asks, stepping away from the window and back towards the center of the room. “…And how did you find this place?”

“I followed your messenger.” Salieri says.

“Ah, did he have a letter for me?” Mozart asks, eyes bright. Salieri can further see the resemblance between the prince and his sister now, though there is definitely something else there with Mozart himself.

Salieri feels a twinge of guilt. Not an uncommon feeling, no, but it is certainly a bit early. He decides not to tell Mozart that he not only followed his messenger here, but that his messenger will never return back to the kingdom.

For some reason, he does not want to drain that light from Mozart's eyes. Not with words, no. He decides that he cannot look at Mozart’s face while he does this.

“I am here because of the Marriage of Figaro.” Salieri mutters instead, tries to keep eye contact with Mozart, at least for now.

But then Mozart blushes a bit at that, and Salieri has to look away. Good _lord_.

“Did you like it?” Mozart shuffles over, puts one hand on Salieri’s arm. “Oh, tell me all about it?”

“No—” Salieri pulls his arm away. “I have not _heard_ it. Mozart, I am not a knight. I did not come to make small talk.” He pauses. “Tell _you_ about it? Did you not write it? Have you not heard it?”

“Of course not. Not everyone can just climb up and down towers.” Mozart teases, but there is no malice in his voice. He giggles, a sound that makes Salieri’s chest tighten uncomfortably, and he hurries over to the piano.

“What are you doing?” Salieri questions, still in the same spot. God, why is he still standing here?

“I am going to play some of it for you.” Mozart explains, and before Salieri can stop him, his fingers are already dancing along the keys.

Salieri inhales sharply.

The music— oh, it is sublime. It is like nothing Salieri has ever heard before, and he is nothing less than awestruck, completely taken aback.

It is a masterpiece, absolutely beautiful. Mozart has only just woken up, and yet, when he sings as he plays…

It is as if Mozart dipped his quill into holy water before writing, as if he transcribed the music of Heaven specifically to play it for Salieri at this moment.

Salieri has been standing here for too long, listening for too long. He can see as the sun just barely begins to rise outside the tower window, the colors spilling across the room, onto Mozart. If Salieri were a fool, he probably would have seen a halo crowning Mozart’s head.

And Salieri— oh, he damn well may be a fool.

He has to force himself out of his state of awe. He wants nothing to do with angels, could never be anything more to them than someone who clips their wings.

Salieri urges his legs to move, and before he knows it, he is yanking Mozart away from the piano by his shirt. He tries not to grimace at the sound of the wrong keys being hit in surprise.

“Monsieur,” Mozart fumbles, stumbling back as Salieri shoves him away. “Did you not—”

Salieri draws his sword, tries to ignore the way Mozart’s eyes widen.

“I have been sent to kill you, Mozart.” Salieri says, no anger in his voice, but nothing else either. “The Marriage of Figaro has sparked ideas of revolution between kingdoms. There is likely going to be a war, and the kingdom mourning the loss of their dead prince will be the one to lose.”

Mozart looks up at Salieri, and Salieri can practically see the gears turning in Mozart’s head.

Mozart looks afraid for a moment— it is not a good look on him— before taking a deep breath and nodding. “If you must kill me…” He says, taking off his crown and holding it in both hands. “Please do it quickly?”

Salieri exhales. “Mozart, you are not in any position to make requests.” He grips his sword so tightly that his knuckles go white, then reasons, “But… I will honor this one last request for you.”

“Wait.” Mozart attempts. “If… If you are honoring me one last request, can I change it?” He smiles, and though it falters with the knowledge of his imminent death, it still holds that mixture of sweet and cocky.

Salieri is a weak man.

“It depends.” Salieri decides, slowly sheathing his sword. “What is it that you want, Mozart?”

“I want to go outside.” Mozart says, fast, then quickly continues before Salieri can stop him, “The reason I am locked away in this tower— it is because I am sick. I will die anyway if I spend too much time outside of this place. I will die _anyway_.” He pleads now, a hand on Salieri’s arm once more. Even in his desperation and stress, he smiles, the reasoning completely going over Salieri’s head if there even is any. “For my last request, Monsieur Salieri. Please, take me somewhere nice?”

Salieri takes a deep breath. He should just kill Mozart where he stands. It is cruel of Salieri to wring him out like this, to play along, to let Mozart die out there. Slowly, he presumes. How _awful_.

It is even more horrible that he wants to do as Mozart asks.

Mozart stares up at him with those bright eyes, his lips still pulled into a grin. He is…

He is really something. From his music, to his _face_ , to that single goddamn strand of hair pressed to his cheek. To the way just the slightest touch of his hand on Salieri’s arm makes Salieri’s heart skip a beat or two.

Salieri doesn’t want to think about it too hard. He just knows that he is in too deep, especially because he _wants_ to accept Mozart’s request. He wants to take Mozart somewhere nice, and he already has a place in mind.

He disgusts himself.

“Very well then.” Salieri says. He knows when he is defeated.

Mozart, immediately, perks up, bounces excitedly. He takes Salieri’s hands and looks up at him.

“Thank you, Monsieur!” He says, eyes bright, and it is too much. Salieri regrets what he is doing already, but he just can’t stop himself. “I will get ready.”

~

Mozart makes Salieri sit at his piano bench while he gets ready, runs back and forth to prepare himself.

Salieri offhandedly mentions that he will need a disguise soon— to not put _too_ much thought or effort into his outfit.

But Mozart simply can’t help it. Not only will this outfit be the first to see the outside world in what feels like _forever_ , but it will also, likely, be what he will die in. It deserves the effort.

So maybe he spends a bit too long on it. Who cares?

(Salieri. Salieri is the one who cares.)

Regardless of Salieri’s murmurs of _hurry up_ and half-hearted threats, Mozart finishes getting ready. Almost. He needs to grab one last thing.

His crown, yes. He is not supposed to be seen without it.

Mozart shuffles over to grab it, only to be stopped by Salieri.

“You can’t wear it.” Salieri tells him. “We are going to have to disguise you soon anyway, remember? It will give you away.”

Mozart pauses, then hums and nods. “Okay.” He says, not minding at all. That crown is a hassle, anyway, falls off when he bows or bounces. It weighs him down too much, and, well, since he is going to die, he would rather be able to bounce as much as he wants. “…How are you going to get me down from here?”

“Did you really only just think of that?” Salieri asks, raising a brow, then shakes his head. “I am going to carry you.”

Mozart chuckles a bit. “I suppose I was just excited.” He admits. “Please don’t drop me.”

“No promises.” Salieri mutters, mean, but… teasing, too. Snarky, in a cute way.

Mozart doesn’t know what to make of it. He just follows Salieri to the window, allows himself to be scooped up into Salieri’s arms.

“Hold on tight.” Salieri says, and Mozart’s grip immediately tightens as Salieri switches to only holding Mozart in one arm.

Strong. Mozart is definitely intrigued.

Any thoughts he was having on _that_ though are immediately swept aside as Salieri begins descending the tower. It is horrifying— they are so high up! Mozart clings with his arms and legs, and Salieri just makes an exasperated sound.

Soon, thank God, they reach the bottom of the tower.

Salieri sets Mozart down, and Mozart all but tosses himself onto the ground, rolls over in the grass.

“You’re going to get itchy.” Salieri sighs.

“It’s grass!” Mozart exclaims.

“Yes, that much was obvious.”

“It’s so green!” Mozart laughs, wholeheartedly, runs his hands over the grass. It has been so long since he has felt it, let alone been close enough to smell it or roll in it or even see the individual blades.

“It isn’t that green.” Salieri says, offers a hand to Mozart to help him up.

“Well, you know what they say.” Mozart says, taking Salieri’s hand, “The grass is always greener after you’ve been locked in a tower for an extended period of time.”

Salieri makes a noise, something between a scoff and a laugh. He shakes his head as he pulls Mozart to his feet. “That’s not how that saying goes.”

Mozart grins. “Not with that attitude.” He says, then peeks around Salieri, at his horse. He hurries to the animal, immediately starts petting. “Oh! Oh— what is your horse’s name?”

Salieri walks over, shrugs. “I didn’t name him.” He tells Mozart. “And he is not exactly mine. He is the king’s—“

“I’ll name him then.” Mozart interrupts, then offers a smile. He pets the horse’s cheek, gentle, doesn’t catch the look Salieri gives him. “Let’s see, let’s see…”

“Ponder it while we ride into town, Mozart.” Salieri walks over, grabs Mozart by his hips and lifts him onto the horse. He is about to hop on, too, when Mozart stops him.

“Can you sit behind me?” Mozart asks, patting the horse’s fur just behind himself.

“That is… not ideal for holding the reins.” Salieri says, slow.

Mozart giggles, nodding. “Then, I guess I’ll hold them!” He pats the horse’s head, scratches behind his ear. “What do you think, Horselieri? Should I be the navigator?”

“What did you call— did you name the horse after me?” Salieri runs a hand down his face, letting out a long sigh as he does. “I am regretting my decision more and more with each passing moment, Mozart.” He says, but he is already climbing on behind him, “I am going to hold the reins— I doubt you even know the way. But you are welcome to put your hands on mine and pretend that you are actually doing something.”

Mozart laughs, and he leans back on Salieri. Salieri scoots closer, too, his front pressed to Mozart’s back and hands gripping the reins, now. He smells like rosemary, Mozart notes, and something else he cannot quite place. 

It is not familiar, though. Perhaps it is the smell of the other kingdom, but Mozart wouldn’t know. Perhaps it _is_ something familiar, something that he has just forgotten.

Either way, it is a nice smell. Comforting, even in this moment.

The sun is mostly up now, even if it is the morning, but it is not too hot. Mozart is unsure how long the trek into town will take them, but for now he isn’t worried, either. The world seems new, bright, and beautiful. The sky even looks bigger, but perhaps that is because now he can see how it stretches from one horizon to the other. 

When they start moving, Mozart settles his hands on top of Salieri’s. Over the reins, like he is actually doing something. The wind is on them, and Mozart has to close his eyes. Even if they are not going too fast, he is nowhere near used to this anymore. He can’t remember if he ever was.

And whether he was being sarcastic earlier or not, Salieri does not have Mozart move his hands away. Not at all, no. In fact, Mozart could swear he feels Salieri shift a bit closer instead. Just a little bit closer.

~

Mozart’s hair keeps getting in his mouth, and though it smells like cherries, it does _not_ taste like them. There is _glitter_ in it, too, and it gets all over Salieri. All over his hands and his cheek, and he knows that when they get off of Horselieri ( _Horselieri!_ ) it will be all over both the horse and himself as well.

He doesn’t know why he is doing this.

Mozart is _annoying_. He is sparkly and rambunctious, a bit of a little shit. He makes comments on everything as if he’s never seen most things, and, hell, he probably hasn’t.

But it is just so _stupid_ and silly. And sweet and cute. Mozart is so genuine; even with his obvious troublemaker tendencies, the way he goads Salieri in their conversation as they ride into town, Mozart is _kind_. Even in his teasing, he is not malicious. Not even towards Salieri, who has been almost nothing _but_ that to him.

Salieri knows exactly why he is doing this. He can’t stop himself, though. He knows he should, but this is just like him. It is just like him to try to ruin someone like Mozart.

He attempts to shove the guilt back, unsure why it has not gone away yet to begin with. He wishes it would though, would much rather feel it after Mozart is gone.

At least when Mozart is no longer here, Salieri won’t feel as if he has a say in anything. Not that he does now, but... the guilt almost makes him wish that he did.

Salieri doesn’t have that control, though, and he _hates_ not having control.

Mozart will die, regardless, and all these things, all these bright and beautiful things, the way he looks at the world— that will die right along with him. There is nothing Salieri can do but honor his request, and take him somewhere nice.

So he does.

First, an inn.

Salieri goes in before Mozart does, pays for the room, and tells the innkeeper that he will be bringing his girlfriend soon.

Girlfriend. As if. Salieri has no interest in women at all, has to make sure that he doesn’t laugh out loud while saying it. But the innkeeper seems to buy it. Or at least humors him.

When the innkeeper is not looking, Salieri goes out to gather Mozart.

Mozart is just waiting out back with _Horselieri_ , whom Salieri had tied to a post earlier. When Salieri sees Mozart, he is _talking_ to the horse, petting him and even feeding him grass.

It is silly, and it stupidly sweet, just like everything else Mozart does. Salieri can’t even bring himself to make a comment, just pinches the bridge of his nose and tells Mozart to hurry up.

He leads Mozart into the inn, and they sneak him up into their room.

The room is— well, it is small. And Salieri never should have said the girlfriend thing, even if it made him less suspicious. The room only has one bed, and Mozart immediately throws himself onto it.

Salieri sighs, watches as Mozart rolls over on the sheets.

“I am going to go find you a disguise.” He tells Mozart, crossing his arms. He shouldn’t ask— he has done Mozart enough favors, but… “Is there anything in particular you want to wear?”

“Anything?” Mozart asks, a little smirk on his face. Oh, he is insufferable.

“Never mind.” Salieri says. “You’re wearing what I bring you. Don’t leave this room.”

Mozart giggles a little, and he sits up. Salieri watches his face, interested, curious as to whether or not he will run away the first chance he gets.

“I’m used to staying in rooms, Monsieur.” Mozart says, playful, but there is a hint of sadness there that Salieri catches— it does _something_ , too, makes his chest a little tight. “You have my word.”

Salieri parts his lips, like he will talk. He wants to ask Mozart again what he would like to wear, but he cannot bring himself to do it. He just shuts his mouth, nods, and hurries out of the room.

First, an inn. Next— next, Mozart’s disguise.

It doesn’t take long. Salieri knows that Mozart is small, so he does not have to worry about sizing. Loose clothes are easier to manage than tight fitting clothes, so he does not think it will be a problem.

And as far as style… Well, Mozart is flamboyant, glittery, and just from the two outfits he has seen Mozart wearing— one of them being what he _sleeps_ in— Salieri can tell that Mozart looks good in both dark and light colors.

A disguise is easy.

Still, Salieri wishes that he would have asked. He should have, and he doesn’t know why he didn’t. Or he does; either way, he forces himself to stop lingering on it.

He picks up a dress. It is a better disguise than any— no one will think the prince is disguised as a girl in a big, pink, frilly dress. But, just in case, Salieri grabs a hat, too, some makeup that he figures Mozart will know how to put on.

The outfit is… cute, if he does say so himself. He tells the shop owner that it is for his girlfriend, and he does crack a smile this time.

The shopkeeper says that young love is sweet, that his girlfriend is a lucky lady. Salieri almost sputters, but then forces a smile and nods, stiff and fast. After he is done paying, he takes his bag and rushes out.

As he hurries to the inn, Salieri sees Horselieri still outside, tied to the post just as he was when Salieri left. He supposes that that means Mozart is still here…

His heart does something funny at that, an awful little leap that makes his face feel kind of warm. He shakes his head to clear it and goes inside, up to their room.

Mozart is sitting on the bed, and he is waiting like he said he would be. He smiles at Salieri and waves.

“Hi,” Salieri says, kind of abrupt, sort of embarrassing. Well, what else was he supposed to say? “I brought you your disguise.” He drops the bag on Mozart.

Mozart perks up immediately, goes to rummage through the bag, then raises a brow at Salieri. “A dress?” He asks.

“No one will suspect it.” Salieri explains, “…But if you are too embarrassed to wear it—”

“I will wear it.” Mozart says, grinning as he removes the contents of the bag, just spilling them carelessly onto the bed. “I look good in a dress, you know. Am I playing your girlfriend or your wife today?” He is _teasing_ , the little shit. He already begins to loosen his cravat and undo his vest.

Salieri can tease just as well, make jabs right back. He might not be as much of a troublemaker, no, but Salieri can be snarky— even if he is blushing and turning his face away to give Mozart some privacy.

“Girlfriend.” Salieri says. “I bought the dress; surely, you were not expecting a ring, too.”

Mozart laughs. Then, he laughs harder. His laughter is like bells, beautiful— it is wholehearted and if he were not changing, Salieri would look over just to see how his eyes gloss up, how he throws his head back. Oh, Salieri has it bad. He has it _very_ bad.

He just keeps staring at the wall, listening to the rustle of Mozart dressing, then the little sounds of containers popping open. He assumes that Mozart is playing with the makeup— he still doesn’t turn around, though. Not yet, no— he needs to regroup. Mozart takes a while, and yet…

Before he can completely settle himself, though, Mozart is tapping his shoulder.

Salieri turns to look at him and, oh— he was _not_ kidding when he said that he looks good in a dress.

(Truthfully, Mozart may have been joking, but he was not wrong. Mozart is _pretty_ , would probably look good in anything. Maybe it is just the way he glows.)

God, Salieri needs to think less, needs to distract himself from how cute that hat sits atop of Mozart’s head, or that damned curled strand on his cheek, or the way his lips curl into a smile, pink with lip gloss—

“The town is pretty at sunset.” Salieri tells Mozart, both to inform him because he wouldn’t know and, honestly, just to have something to say. “We can go to the tavern— do you like to dance?”

~

Salieri is thoughtful, though he plays himself off not to be. Mozart can’t help but wonder how he got saddled as an _assassin_ , but he doesn’t ask. Maybe he will later, but not right now.

He gets dressed, excited to explore. He has been locked away too long, doesn’t even care that the only adventure he will have will include him pretending to be someone’s girlfriend, all dolled up and sparkly. He likes dolled up— he likes sparkly.

He likes Salieri.

“I don’t know how to dance.” Mozart admits when Salieri asks, but he doesn’t stop beaming. He can’t help but think of his joyous little dancing, alone in his room. His dancing— when he found out the success of Figaro. It seems so long ago now, and none of it seems to matter anymore. “You could show me?”

“What kind of prince doesn’t know how to dance?” Salieri asks, standing again and crossing his arms.

“One that has been locked away in a tower, Monsieur Salieri.” Mozart says, crossing his arms, too.

Salieri scoffs, then shakes his head. Mozart knows that he has won this battle.

“I can show you what I know.” Salieri says. “But— be warned, it is not much. I don’t exactly spend my time whisking women off their feet and cutting rugs with them.”

Mozart giggles, then hums in agreement. He didn’t take Salieri for one to do that anyway.

Before long, the two of them shuffle down the stairs and out of the inn. The innkeeper raises a brow at Salieri, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. Mozart wonders what Salieri told him, but he doesn’t bother with it.

He has much more exciting things to think about.

Like when they walk outside, for example. Everything is still just as new. The air is crisp, and the grass is green, and Mozart knows that he is grinning like a fool, but he simply can’t help it! Not when it feels as though he has been woken up— and oh, if that were the case, he has been sleeping _far_ too long.

They walk together, Mozart following Salieri’s lead, his hand on Salieri’s arm, their shoulders bumping every so often.

“We are going the long way.” Salieri tells him. “Since there will be less people around, and— well, the view is nicer.”

Mozart nods, bouncing on his heels. He keeps close to Salieri and admires the _view_.

And Salieri was right: it is incredible, especially to Mozart.

They pass a field of flowers that Mozart insists they walk _through_ instead, then cross over a bridge that Salieri has to stop Mozart from leaping off of.

The water below is so blue, though! And sure, maybe Mozart cannot swim, and maybe the dress will only drag him down, but the water is so _blue_.

Salieri, at least, lets him lean over the railing, throw a few of the flowers he picked from the meadow into the water.

Some of them catch on rocks, yes, or they get stuck on the shore. But some of them— some of them make it far down the river, so far that Mozart cannot see them anymore. He hopes that they will make it to the ocean, tells Salieri that, too.

Salieri stays quiet for a moment, expression unreadable, then he tells Mozart to hurry along.

Soon, they arrive at the tavern, small but bustling with people. Someone inside is playing a piano, someone else, a violin. The notes pour through the cracks and crevices of the old wood. 

Mozart is _excited_. He all but drags Salieri inside.

“Don’t talk to anyone.” Salieri mutters to Mozart, hushed and leaning close so that only he can hear it.

“I won’t.” Mozart smirks, “But you better entertain me all night then.”

Salieri scoffs again, but this one resembles a laugh even more so. He is so handsome— especially when he smiles. Mozart is beginning to think that he would not have preferred any other ‘knight’, whether he not-so-secretly be an assassin or not.

“Do you want a drink?” Salieri asks, leading Mozart towards the bar.

Mozart stops him, shakes his head fast. “No.” He says, “I don’t want any drinks.”

He doesn’t need any drinks, either— not at all. He is already drunk on all of this, on the river, on the meadow, on the sound of music. On the way that Salieri looks at him when he tells him that he doesn’t want a drink. That he wants to be sober, wants to live and remember every bit of this as long as he can.

Mozart is going to die, and, when he does, he is going to have lived himself to death.

And Salieri— Salieri brought him here to dance! He already cannot dance, can’t even imagine how goofy he would look if he was drunk, too.

“Mozart…” Salieri starts, low and serious. Almost sad. He looks like he has more to say, but Mozart doesn’t let him.

“You said you would show me how to dance, Salieri…” Mozart reminds him, playful. He looks at Salieri through his lashes, a faux kind of sheepish. He hikes up his dress just a bit, shows Salieri his shoes.

They are black, men’s shoes. Salieri laughs— a real laugh this time.

“I did.” Salieri says, then bows a bit. “Can I have this dance?” He asks, offering a hand.

“Mmm…” Mozart hums, pretending to be uncertain.

“ _Mozart_.” Salieri warns.

Mozart laughs. He is nothing if not a little bratty sometimes. “Of course.” He gives Salieri a little curtsy, then takes his hand.

But Salieri—

Oh, he cannot dance! Not one bit.

He makes an attempt, though: one of his hands on Mozart’s waist, Mozart’s hand on his shoulder, and the fingers of their other hands laced together. It is clumsy and silly, Salieri stepping on Mozart’s toes when Mozart is not stepping on his.

Horrible, and perfect. 

They can be horrible at it together. Everyone is too drunk or busy to notice, anyway. It is almost as if, even in a room full of people, they are all alone.

Mozart listens to the piano as he sways with Salieri, and they eventually fall into a rhythm.

It seems to be fitting of them, tripping over themselves at first, rocky, then all of a sudden—

Mozart notices that he has just been staring at Salieri’s face, eyes focused on the mole on his right cheek. He flushes, tries to laugh it off, and ducks his head away. But his free hand, the one he had earlier placed on Salieri’s shoulder, moves up to Salieri’s cheek. He caresses there a bit, still not looking.

He gains up the courage, though— not something he has to do very often— and this time, when Mozart peers up at Salieri, his sheepishness is anything but fake. Flustered, and he feels as though he has swallowed butterflies.

“Do you…” Mozart starts, “Do you think they’d let me play the piano?” He blurts out.

Salieri looks flustered, and he shakes his head. “No— well, maybe. But you shouldn’t. Anyone would recognize your music, it’s—” He takes in a sharp breath, looking away, then looking back at Mozart. He opens his mouth again, and he just closes it once more, instead pulling Mozart in.

Mozart’s head bumps against his shoulder, graceless, and he can’t help but let out a laugh.

He doesn’t pull away though; in fact, he doesn’t even want to at all.

They stay like that for a long while. Mozart loses track of the time in their swaying, in the changing songs and pianists. He’s sure that they’re dancing too slowly for some of the songs, too, and on occasion, he is reminded of the other people in the room each time one of them brushes against his arm.

But none of them matter, not in the slightest.

There are a million other things that Mozart could be doing with this day, and he knows that. Despite not knowing what they all are, he knows _of_ them, and he has always been a man of possibilities.

Mozart does not want any of them, though. He would not change a thing about today.

Eventually, of course, as all things end, the two of them need to pull away. Salieri mutters something about the inn, about it getting late, and they leave the tavern.

It is not until they are outside in the cold that Mozart notices that Salieri has not let go of his hand.

~

The walk home is both peaceful and dreadful. Salieri does not want to think about Mozart just dropping dead soon, but he is unsure how to tell when it will happen.

Mozart doesn’t _look_ sick, but looks can be deceiving. He doesn’t look like someone Salieri would fall in love with either, but here he is.

Hopelessly, and admittedly, in love with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Salieri should tell him— he should _tell_ Mozart that he loves him, that he does not even loathe loving him. That he, himself, is a vile man, ruins people with a flick of his wrist. That he _hated_ Mozart for his happiness, and now he wants to share in it for as much time as they have left.

As they cross the bridge, he thinks about telling Mozart, about how he _should_.

Salieri should tell him. He should say that he loves him before it is too late, that he is drawn to him, reaches towards him like a flower to the sun. He should be bold, jump in cold water; it is impulsive, and he is not an impulsive man, no, but it is what Mozart would do. 

And perhaps it would do Salieri some good to leap into a river simply because it is so _blue_. It could be _good_ to say how he feels for once, to stop letting the guilt eat at him only after he has ruined something yet again.

They walk through the meadow, fingers still laced. Salieri stops Mozart before he can stop _himself_ , before he can let those fears and insecurities chain him down. 

Salieri should _tell_ him. He should—

But when he meets Mozart’s eyes, he can see it in his face. Mozart _knows,_ he must know it all. But he still looks at Salieri like _that_ , not only seeing the good in him, but seeing the bad and loving him anyway.

What the hell did Salieri do to deserve this?

Salieri should tell him, but he doesn’t need to. Wordless, he bends down and plucks a flower from the meadow. He doesn’t need a river to throw it in, though. No, this flower does not need to go very far.

He tucks it behind Mozart’s ear, uses that same hand to cup the back of his neck.

Salieri leans in, and Mozart, of course, meets him halfway, maybe more. Eager and soft, they kiss under the moon and stars, in a meadow full of flowers. The entirety of this day— oh, none of it has been storybook, not in the slightest. But just this moment…

It almost makes Salieri believe that they will live happily ever after.

He pulls away after a long time, but it still feels impossibly short. He presses his forehead to Mozart’s, closes his eyes, and they keep that silence. Is there even anything to say?

“Mozart.” Salieri mutters, finally, his fingers finding Mozart’s. “I think— I might just be…” He can’t say it and has to look away, feeling his face heat up. Christ, when did this happen to him? When did he get like this?

Mozart giggles, that sweet little sound. Like bells, not a hint of malice in it.

“You don’t have to say it.” Mozart says, quiet, maybe the quietest Salieri has ever heard him. “I already know.”

Salieri watches Mozart’s face, scans it for _something_. Any kind of anger or dread or sadness which he knows Mozart _should_ feel. But he can’t find it— oh, why can’t Mozart be at least a little angry at Salieri for coming here to ruin his life, only to fall hopelessly in love with him instead?

Mozart is an _angel_ , doesn’t he know?

Salieri kisses him again. He has to— he just can’t resist. This one is a bit more heated, Mozart’s lips sweet against his. He tastes like cherries.

Salieri will never be able to eat cherries again.

He pulls away again, huffing a little this time. “ _Mozart_.” He drawls, their foreheads still together. “I want you to go back to the inn, and I want you to wait for me.” He closes his eyes, then opens them again. He breathes and adds, “In bed.”

Mozart flushes, then nods quickly. He hikes up his dress to be able to run faster to the inn.

“Be quick.” Mozart says. He smirks, “I will be waiting.”

Salieri hums. He kisses Mozart one more time— just one. Maybe two. Three.

Mozart laughs as he pulls back, dress still balled up in both of his hands. He backs up, then hurries off only to pause just a few feet away. He looks over his shoulder, drops one side to blow Salieri a kiss, then grabs the fabric again. He giggles, so stupidly cute, then hurries off completely this time.

Salieri watches Mozart go. He looks away, makes sure that Mozart is out of sight, then pretends to catch the kiss that he blew. He puts it in his pocket and rolls his eyes at himself. God, he is really like this now, isn’t he?

Salieri pats his pocket as if to make sure the kiss is still in there, then grimaces at himself. Goddamnit.

He can’t linger on it. He is a man on a mission.

Most of the shops are closed, which means the ones that are open will be expensive, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t typically buy anything anyway, save for expensive wines here and there when he is feeling particularly depressed.

He can indulge in this, buys a vial of oil from a man who doesn’t question him at all.

There is no reason to. No one knows but him and Mozart— it is theirs and only theirs.

Salieri hurries back to the inn, then slows himself down outside. He is getting far too eager, definitely needs to calm himself down.

He paces around outside of the inn, turning the vial of oil over in his hands to warm it up. He breathes, then looks over at the horse. _Horselieri_. That name is going to stick, isn’t it?

“Horselieri…” Salieri mutters, walking over to him. He pets his snout, scratches behind his ears. “You love Mozart, huh?”

Horselieri doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t— he is a horse, so he only whinnies. Salieri laughs; God, Mozart has rubbed off on him so much. He is talking to a _horse_.

“I do, too.” Salieri says anyway, pats Horselieri’s cheek. “I’m a fool— an absolute disaster. But my heart is his.” He looks at the vial, then back at Horselieri. “I’m going to give you away once he dies. I don’t think I can stand to look at you, but don’t take that to heart.” He chuckles weakly and sighs, annoyingly vulnerable, and in front of a horse of all people. “I am… going to make sure he lives himself to death. It is the least I can do.”

Salieri pets Horselieri again, gives him a little scratch, and then finally goes into the inn.

He ascends the stairs, then gives their door a little knock before stepping in and closing the door behind himself.

Mozart is sitting on the bed, his hands folded in his lap, his shoes and hat off and just discarded about the room. _Some prince_ , is Salieri’s first thought, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Mozart.” Salieri says, low, making his way over to the bed.

Mozart sits up a little straighter, grins at him, “Salieri…” He says, “I’ll have you know that I have never done this before.”

“Then I’ll be sure to make it good.” Salieri kicks off his shoes, puts a knee on the bed, and undoes the tie of his cloak. He just lets it fall— typically, he’d be more worried about dirt and wrinkles, but they don’t have time. Just how much time does Mozart have left?

He doesn’t think about it, not more than that. Instead, he guides Mozart up the bed, watches how his hair falls about the pillow like a halo. Does he know?

Salieri wishes he _knew_. He supposes he will have to show him instead.

“Mozart.” He says, quieter this time. He sets the oil aside, within reach, then settles between Mozart’s legs. He brings his hands up Mozart’s thighs, letting the dress slide upwards with them. “I suppose that having a single bed in this room wasn’t all that bad of an idea.”

Mozart giggles. “No, I _suppose_ not.” He teases, mimicking Salieri’s tone, then arching his back to get his hands behind himself. He starts undoing the laces on the dress, but laughs. “This is a lot harder to get off than it was to get on.”

Salieri chuckles and shakes his head. He leans over Mozart, kisses his cheek as he helps him gets the laces undone.

Mozart tilts his head just a bit, his lips pressed to the side of Salieri’s face. Salieri can _feel_ his grin. The kisses he presses there are gentle and soft, if a little teasing. Of course— Salieri didn’t expect him to be any other kind of lover. It is so _Mozart_.

They get the laces undone, and as Mozart wiggles out of the dress, Salieri sits back to pull off his clothes, too.

It is fast, but it still takes far too much time.

Salieri just wants to press Mozart into the sheets, kiss him, and take him, and _show_ him—

He is this kind of person now, his heart full and, God, it _aches_. How was he ever so cold and cruel, his back turned to the world when someone like _Mozart_ existed in it? Oh, if you truly are asleep until you fall in love, then Salieri, despite all the dread he has always felt, the hatred and anger at _himself_ , has never felt happier to be awake.

And Mozart, the sun of a man he is— of course he was the one to wake Salieri up. _Of course_.

He is awake. Awake, and alive, and with Mozart.

Salieri's mouth finds Mozart's again, Mozart's lips parted this time around. Salieri pushes his tongue past them— oh, Mozart tastes so _sweet_.

Fitting, it is so fitting.

Mozart raises his hips, allows Salieri to get him out of his underwear, already half-hard from all their kisses and probably just the thought of what they are about to do.

Good, good. Salieri is glad he is eager.

He is getting there himself, too, sheds the remainder of his clothes down to the ribbon in his hair, which Mozart promptly tugs out.

Mozart's hands find his hair, fingers running through it before it can even fall over his shoulders completely. He doesn't quite pull, but he does guide Salieri down by it, catching his lips again.

Salieri hums into the kiss, presses a thigh between Mozart's. He notes how _soft_ Mozart's thighs are. And Mozart didn't take off his socks either— Salieri can feel where the fabric ends, just mid-thigh. _God_.

Salieri drops one hand, runs it down Mozart's stomach, down to the base of his cock.

One stroke in, and Mozart is already gasping, a sound like _music_ to Salieri's ears. And, _oh_ , Salieri couldn't hate music if he tried, not when he has heard it come from Mozart's brain, his hands, his lips. He strokes him again, just to hear the sound, then covers his mouth with his own once more.

Mozart keeps his hands in Salieri's hair, mumbles his name. Good lord, it is like a prayer coming from Mozart, spilling past the lips of an angel. Salieri can practically taste it in the way Mozart's lips brush his as he says it.

Sweet, light. How can Mozart make his name sound like _that_?

Salieri's hand glides over the bed, searching for the oil. He finds it quickly, sits back to pop it open.

“It might feel weird—” Salieri starts, settling between Mozart's thighs and giving his knee a little push to spread him further.

“Oh, I know.” Mozart says. He is _blushing_ , but allows Salieri to spread him, his eyes fixed on Salieri's fingers as he drizzles the oil over them.

“Oh?" Salieri asks, “I thought you said you have never—”

“Not with anyone else.” Mozart interrupts, then lets out a laugh at the incredulous look Salieri knows he must be wearing. "I have done it myself...”

“Right.” Salieri says, having to close his eyes for a moment. He tries not to picture Mozart doing this to himself, but...

Sometimes, he is a weak man.

Just a bit flustered, Salieri covers the oil and sets it aside once more. He spreads his fingers, three of them slick, for Mozart to see.

Mozart flushes further and nods. With that affirmation, Salieri's hand dips down, his fingers disappearing between Mozart's legs.

“Oh...” Mozart murmurs, soft. He spreads his legs further to give Salieri more room as he presses a finger to his rim.

Salieri breathes, and he closes his eyes once more. He lets Mozart's little sounds wash over him like his music does, works in a finger.

Mozart takes him well, better than Salieri expected. He kisses Mozart as he curls the finger, rubbing and stretching and coaxing the softest little sounds out.

One finger becomes two, hot and slick. Salieri scissors them, drags them in and out. Mozart's eyes flutter closed, his head tossed back, mouth agape on a high moan when the pads of Salieri's fingers find that sweet spot and don't let up.

Mozart's teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he arches. Golden, gorgeous. God, Salieri cannot get enough of him. He watches as Mozart gasps, the way his toes curl.

Salieri works in one more finger, thrusts with those three and spreads all of them when he knows Mozart can take it.

Of course Mozart can. He takes him so well, absolutely _divine_.

Salieri draws all three fingers out, grabs the oil again. Before he can get it open, though, Mozart sticks a hand out.

“Can I do it?” He asks, breathless, his face red.

Salieri raises a brow, but nods and hands Mozart the vial. He watches as Mozart tries to get it open.

Mozart struggles slightly, his tongue sticking out in focus. He gets the vial open, though, slicks up the fingers of his left hand.

Huh. Salieri did not realize Mozart was left handed. He watches with interest, scoots closer when Mozart beckons him with slick fingers.

Mozart gets the cover back on the vial, then sets it aside. He smiles wide at Salieri, then drops his hand.

Ah, Mozart's fingers are inexperienced, that is for sure, a bit clumsy. But they are _good_ , do an efficient job of slicking him up and then some. They are gone way too quickly— God, Salieri could let Mozart touch him all night.

But when Mozart leans back, lets his legs spread again...

Well, Salieri would much rather have this.

He licks his lips and scoots closer, hovering. Mozart looks so _beautiful_ beneath him, skin slick from their exertions, that strand of hair sticking to his cheek.

Salieri is not one for compliments; he is more of a ' _show, don't tell_ ' kind of guy. Still, he can't help but mutter that Mozart looks beautiful, just beneath his breath.

Mozart hears, of course. And he grins, but he doesn't say anything. They don't need to say anything. Nothing at all.

Salieri lines himself up, one hand by Mozart’s head and the other guiding his cock as he leans over. He presses the tip to Mozart’s hole, not quite pushing in just yet. He peers up at Mozart’s face, parts his lip to ask, but Mozart is already nodding eagerly.

Salieri lets out a breathy laugh. Mozart is... oh, he sure is something.

His laughter turns into a groan, though, quiet as he pushes in. Mozart makes a noise, too, louder and higher, his fingers scrambling to hold the sheets. But he nods, breathes out for Salieri to _keep going_.

So he does. He keeps pressing in until their hips are flush together, cock pressed deep in Mozart who shifts to familiarize himself with the intrusion.

Christ, Mozart is _tight_ , and his little squirming doesn't help that at all. Salieri waits a moment, then rocks his hips, just a slow drag, letting Mozart get used to it and stretching him further in the process.

Mozart breathes out a little moan, his hands making their way up to Salieri's shoulders. He squeezes there, and Salieri has half the mind to tell him to get his sticky little hands off of him— oh, he is going to get oil in his _hair_. He doesn't, though; no, he just leans down, gives Mozart another open-mouthed kiss.

They go slow at first, then find a faster rhythm together, Salieri rutting his hips down— and Mozart rocking his _up_.

Cheesy, yes, but God, it is like _music_. Salieri hasn't written a piece in years, and he has never performed one, but _Mozart_...

Oh, Mozart's body is a _symphony_ , and Salieri is conducting. He guides every note, motions for each crescendo. He hits the right spot, knows the exact moment he does because of how Mozart _sings_ , tossing his head back.

Relentless, he works at that spot over and over, faster, hiking one of Mozart's thighs up to hit it better. It makes him infinitely tighter, and Mozart all but cries out his moans, grasping at Salieri's shoulder.

He tightens just right— it has to be on purpose, clever boy.

Salieri uses his free hand to jack Mozart off; oh, he is practically dripping, his cock slick with precum and the oil from Salieri’s fingers.

Salieri probably doesn’t get more than three strokes in before Mozart is cumming, shouting out his name and arching off the sheets.

Salieri kisses Mozart, both to muffle him and himself, but also because _oh_ , Mozart looks so good saying his name. He can't resist kissing him, not when he looks like that, sounds like _that_.

He doesn't last much longer, hips stuttering as he presses deep into Mozart and finishes inside.

They rock a bit more before slowing to a stop, still twitching and shaking, panting. Mozart's dry hand gets into his somehow, and Salieri laces their fingers, lowering himself to press his forehead to Mozart's.

“You are... You are a musician.” Mozart whispers, breathy, eyes closed. “You write music, don't you?”

Salieri hums, rubbing Mozart's thigh. “A little. How do you figure?”

“Composers... They look at each other differently than those who are just admiring." Mozart opens his eyes slowly, leaves them hooded, the most love-struck and foolish and sublime look on his face. "When you look at me, I can see you writing a song.”

Salieri blushes, taken aback. He looks away and clears his throat. Jesus.

“Yes…” He mutters. “I suppose you’re right. If I ever get behind a piano again, I know exactly what I will play.” He holds Mozart’s hips steady as he pulls out.

“Ah,” Mozart breathes, “What will you play?”

“Something loud.” Salieri says.

Mozart flushes, then laughs, covering his face. “So cold!”

Salieri smirks, plopping over beside Mozart and pulling him in close. He kisses beneath Mozart’s ear, lets Mozart wiggle himself closer until they are like two spoons in a drawer.

They are quiet, just catching their breath.

And reality drapes over, as it does, like a heavy blanket. Salieri has to close his eyes, forces himself to think of it now. He has to.

Slowly, almost timid, he places his hand on Mozart’s again. Mozart accepts it, laces their fingers together. He can’t see Mozart’s face from this angle, either. He wants to, yes, but he is almost grateful that he cannot.

Mozart is going to die, and what if it is tonight? It is best that Mozart dies in his sleep, but Salieri does not want to wake up to a cold bed, to a lifeless Mozart. 

Instinctively, he holds Mozart closer, squeezes his hand. If what Mozart has said is true, then Salieri will, in fact, be alone again in the morning. It is selfish, and it is cold, like he has always been, but he does not want to be alone anymore. Now that he has felt the sun on his face, he doesn’t think he could handle going back to life without it.

“It’s okay to be afraid.” Mozart says, a whisper. He knows— without Salieri even having to say it, he just _knows_. “I’m afraid, too.”

Oh, how did Salieri get both so lucky _and_ unlucky? To find someone like Mozart, who makes him feel as though he created the stars for him, painted each of them in the sky at night, every night— only to have him be ripped away after just a single day?

Perhaps this is his penance for all the evil things he has ever done. Perhaps, this is his punishment for wanting to swim with the snakes, for biting every hand offered to him, dripping his venom into every person who dared to love and be loved near him.

It is cruel, but maybe it is well-deserved.

Despite it all, Salieri loves Mozart, and is both the snakes and the people they bite. He knows he should tell Mozart that he loves him, too. He _does_ love him, truly. He is in love with Mozart—

But he doesn’t say it, only kisses Mozart’s jaw, and tells him that they can be scared together.

When they fall asleep that night, Salieri doesn’t expect either of them to be awake in the morning.

~

Mozart wakes up to the sun pouring in on his face, heating up his cheeks. He yawns into his hand, sits up to feel Salieri’s arm slip down onto his lap.

He blinks slowly, rubbing his eyes, lets the events from last night wash over him. Dancing with Salieri in the pub, the meadow.

…Their kisses, his hurrying back to the hotel room, Salieri’s hands on him. Salieri—

“Salieri!” Mozart jolts, startling Salieri awake.

He is alive. He is alive and sore and, and— he looks over at Salieri, who is just as surprised as he is.

Mozart looks at his hands, touches his face. He lets out a little laugh, then runs his hands through his hair, trying to process all that is happening.

He doesn’t know what’s going on. His father said— he told him that he would _die_ if he left the tower. But it didn’t happen, why didn’t it happen?

Perhaps… Maybe he isn’t sick? Who told his father that Mozart was sick like his mother? Perhaps they were wrong—

“I have to go home.” Mozart says, then perkier, “I can go home!”

He imagines his sister’s face when she sees him, how ecstatic she will be. He imagines the hug she will give him, warm and soft and— and oh, he imagines his father smiling when he sees him again. It has been _too_ long. He cannot wait to fall into his family’s arms again.

“Mozart…” Salieri says. He looks concentrated, eyebrows furrowed in thought. Maybe worry. “Who… who told you that you would die if you left the tower?”

“My father.” Mozart says. “My mother, she died of the same illness that I have, or… that I thought I had.”

“She couldn’t go outside?” Salieri asks.

“I don’t know.” Mozart blurts out, then bites his lip. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago, and it… I don’t remember it.” He rubs his arm, looks away because he doesn’t think he can make eye contact, not right now. “But I remember my father telling my sister, Nannerl, that I would die. I’d die just like our mother did if I wasn’t locked away in the tower.”

“What a horrible thing to tell a child.” Salieri remarks.

“No, no. Our father loves us very much.” Mozart waves his hands, not liking the anxiety bubbling up in him, the implication of Salieri’s words. “He has given me everything. His love, his love for music. I love my father— he just did what he had to do.” He looks at Salieri, then down, then back at Salieri once more, his fingers tapping on his own thigh. “Can you imagine how excited he will be to see that I am alive and well? Oh, Salieri, please take me to him.”

Salieri watches Mozart’s face, and Mozart can practically see the gears turning in his head.

Still, Mozart is hopeful, knows that Salieri can see that hopefulness and anticipation in his eyes, in every single one of his features.

“Who is performing The Marriage of Figaro?” Salieri asks, much to Mozart’s dismay.

“…My father and sister are in charge of the performances.” Mozart replies, though he is not exactly sure where Salieri is going with this. “At least, that is what I have been told. I figured the actors in the castle…” He trails off. _Oh_.

“Mozart, surely…” Salieri pauses, then sighs, “You do not find it the slightest bit odd that, despite being performed only in the castle, it has gained so much reception? So much so that I have been sent here to kill you for the trouble it has caused? I doubt it is only being performed there— in fact, I _know_ it is not.” He pauses, then adds, “And I do not doubt that your father is making money off of the success of it.”

Mozart frowns at that. It could be true, that is for sure. But he has never _not_ given someone the benefit of the doubt, and he is not going to start now.

Besides, so what if his father is making money off of the success of Figaro? That is good, isn’t it? He is helping, finally, even from the confines of his little tower.

And yet… admittedly, Mozart would have liked to have _known_. But, oh, he does not hold it against his father, nor Nannerl, who did not tell him. Surely, there is a reason, and there will be an apology, or something vaguely resembling one.

And he will forgive. That is just who Mozart is.

“I want to see them, Salieri.” Mozart says, insistent. He scoots closer, puts a hand on Salieri’s and gives it a little squeeze. “My father has given me everything, everything that he could. And my sister— oh, she made sure that I was never lonely. Even locked away in the tower for…”

Mozart pauses, looks past Salieri for a moment, and then shakes his head. “For _that long_... She is not just my sister. She is my best friend. I want to see them— no, no. I _need_ to see them. Salieri, they are my family.”

Truthfully, Mozart is unable to recall a set amount of time, unable to remember a lot of his childhood, both before and within the tower. He has pushed those memories out of his mind, and he doesn’t exactly want to dip into them.

In fact, he doesn’t like to think about them at all. He has tried before, only to get immediately overwhelmed, hands shooting upwards to cover his ears and soothe the buzzing in his head. He doesn’t try too often anymore.

Still, he hopes that his inability to recall these facts doesn’t turn Salieri away from wanting to help him further.

It doesn’t.

Instead, it seems to do the reverse. Yes, Salieri seems reluctant for a moment, takes a long look at Mozart’s face. But then, he sighs and nods, rubs his thumb over Mozart’s knuckles.

“I will take you home.” Salieri says, slow and quiet. “If that is what you want.”

Mozart smiles wide, brings Salieri’s palm to his lips and kisses it over and over. “Yes— yes, oh, thank you, Salieri.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then looks back at Salieri’s face. “I promise you… When we are back at the kingdom, when— when all the dust has settled—“

“Don’t.” Salieri says, harsh, but likely more harsh than he intended. He looks momentarily apologetic, then just settles on looking away, anywhere but at Mozart’s face. “Mozart, I am not expecting anything from you. I— I was sent to kill you, and I did not do my job, and now— Oh, I am _helping_ you. Why am I helping you?”

“Because… You like me?” Mozart offers.

“That was when I thought you were going to die.” Salieri bites his tongue immediately after saying those words, but Mozart is already flinching away from them.

Oh, that _hurts_.

Mozart only spares Salieri a hurt glance before swinging his legs over the bed, standing up to gather his clothes and try to tug them on as quickly as possible. He can’t get them on fast enough, honestly, embarrassed and hurt and, God, why did Salieri have to say _that_?

Mozart closes his eyes, wills them to stop stinging. He has barely managed to get his shirt on when Salieri’s hand finds his arm, surprisingly soft, gentle.

“Mozart, that is _not_ what I meant.” Salieri tries.

“What did you mean then?” Mozart asks, can’t help the little sniffle that comes after it.

“Mozart, I…” Salieri sighs, slowly lowering his hand down Mozart’s arm, taking his hand instead, “I need a moment, to think of what I meant. But it was not _that_.”

Mozart bites his lip, feels his fingers twitch. He knows that he should yank his hand away, give Salieri the middle finger, steal his horse and ride off into the kingdom himself. But he is not that person, doesn’t know the way to the kingdom anyway.

And sometimes… he is a weak man.

Mozart laces their fingers, sits and waits for Salieri’s explanation.

Salieri takes a moment, seemingly tossing around whatever he is thinking of saying in his head a few times before finally just dropping his forehead onto Mozart’s shoulder. He leans there, wraps his free arm around Mozart’s middle and starts quietly, “I did not plan this far, Mozart…”

Mozart pauses, noticing the shift in Salieri’s demeanor. He seems almost vulnerable like this, out of his own character. “What do you mean?” Mozart asks, voice just as quiet, but he is already placing his other hand on Salieri’s.

“Before anything, I did not decide that I cared about you because it was easy. No, I think… That would have been very stupid of me. Caring for someone who is doomed is probably the opposite of easy.” Salieri lets out a weak chuckle. “But caring for you in the long term… Oh, it sounded so good in theory, and it was something I wanted so badly yesterday. It is something I do want _now_ , Mozart. But I am being hit with it all at once, with whatever today is going to bring. As much as I wanted to care for you longer, I did not _plan_ on being able to. And I need a moment. I need to… God, I need to figure out how the hell I am supposed to feel this much every single day when I’m not used to doing it at all.”

Mozart… Mozart empathizes. Maybe not in the exact same way, no, but—

Oh, he had been locked in that tower for so long, no one to speak with outside of his sister and occasionally his father, outside of flirting with the messenger who only ever spoke with him once. Being removed from it was exciting, yes. Everything was new and beautiful and _bright_.

But that is just it: everything was _new_ , and beautiful, and so, so bright.

Maybe Salieri has been locked away in a tower of his own. Maybe he is not used to the light outside of it, how bright it can be, how new it all is.

Mozart can definitely understand that. Not in the same way, no, but isn’t it odd, really? How two hearts can ache so similarly, yet so differently as well?

Mozart brings Salieri’s hand to his lips again, this time kisses the back of it.

“I don’t know, Salieri.” He admits. “But I am willing to figure it out if you are.”

Salieri stays silent for a moment, then lets out a quiet chuckle. “What on earth am I going to do with you?” He asks, voice a whisper.

“Well, first, take me home.” Mozart says.

Salieri laughs again, abrupt, louder this time, and it brings a smile to Mozart’s face.

“What?” Mozart asks, looking over his shoulder.

“You are a little shit.” Salieri hums, but he is already leaning in, pressing a kiss to Mozart’s cheek. His hands come to rest on either one of Mozart’s thighs, slide upwards slowly. “Get dressed.” He says, then pinches Mozart’s ass.

Mozart squeaks, face flushing. He laughs, though, and covers half of his face with one hand. “What a bully! I am going to let Horselieri know about this.”

“Horselieri.” Salieri scoffs, standing to gather his clothes. He grimaces at them, then dusts them off before he starts pulling them on. “And what is he going to do about it?”

“I don’t know yet.” Mozart giggles, and he stands as well. “You seem like the type to confide in animals, Monsieur Salieri. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Salieri pauses, then shakes his head. “I do not confide in animals.”

Mozart laughs, then hums in mock agreement. He begins getting dressed, too.

He does not have to wear that dress, as there is no reason for him to be hiding any longer. He is alive and well, and he will return to his family very soon. He can slip back into what he was wearing when he left the tower, yes, so he does.

(Still, though, he can’t help but feel just a bit of remorse for it. His legs will certainly miss the freedom that they had yesterday night.)

Once the two of them are dressed, Mozart watches as Salieri makes an attempt to tidy up their inn room. It is not _messy_ per se, but there is definitely oil in the sheets, other fluids that Mozart will feel guilty about making someone else clean later.

After he is seemingly satisfied with his work, Salieri steps back. He looks to Mozart, and Mozart quickly offers him his hand.

“Hold it once here.” Mozart explains. “Since you can’t really do it out there, I mean. Just once here, then you can hold it all you want when we’re back at the kingdom.”

Truthfully, Mozart is unsure how his father will feel about Salieri. Not just because he is from the other kingdom, no, and not even for the fact that Salieri is another man either. No, Mozart is unsure because— well, his father loves him, yes. But, in all honesty, he does not know his father all too well.

He knows that his father loves him, has done nothing but give and give and _give_. He knows that his father has never wanted him to be anything but well-educated and safe. And loved— yes, loved is important.

That is why his father locked him away; because he loves Mozart, he locked him away. Everything he has done, it has been out of love. He has given Mozart everything, so the least Mozart can do is give him this. The benefit of the doubt.

He will like Salieri— Mozart may not know everything about his father, but he knows _this_.

Salieri takes Mozart’s hand, pulls him from his thoughts with a little squeeze of their laced fingers. He gives Mozart a look— a knowing look, a look like he has something to say, but maybe cannot quite put it into words.

If he did have something to say, he doesn’t say it. 

Mozart squeezes back.

~

Riffs in human passion, yes. The rebellion of a free man.

The opera of the Marriage of Figaro was written just for her.

Nannerl Mozart loves her brother, and she loves just about everything that he does. She knows _why_ he does them, too, knows exactly what drew him to the play to begin with. Oh, she could read Wolfgang like a book.

Well, sort of. She can _sort of_ read him like a book, anyway.

Truthfully, Wolfgang was a young boy when he was locked away in the tower, just shortly after their mother’s death. She is not quite sure what he looks like anymore, and she doesn’t know all that much about him except for what he shares in his letters.

Yes, Nannerl’s idea of her brother is _vague_. Of the things she knows, she knows that Wolfgang is nervous, but he is brilliant. He is kind, but he is hard on himself.

She loves him—

And he loves her.

And he loves their father, but, oh, that makes Nannerl’s heart _ache_.

Of the time she does remember of Wolfgang, she recalls their father’s relationship with him. She does not doubt that their father _loves_ Wolfgang, of course, but he was… _hard_ on him.

Their father would blindfold Wolfgang, make him sit at the piano and play for him, the same things over and over and over. And not just the piano, either, no. Everything from scales on those keys to pieces composed completely by himself on the violin. If there was something musically to be done, Wolfgang could do it.

And he did it happily, wanting nothing more than to make their father proud.

Perhaps it was guilt. After Wolfgang’s birth, their mother’s health had declined. Slowly, then all at once. Nannerl doubts that Wolfgang has any clear memories of their mother— hell, he might not even have any of _her_ , his sister.

But she knows that Wolfgang has memories of their father. How could he not?

Their father was everything to Wolfgang. He wanted to make him proud, ached to please him so desperately.

And yes, their father was not always the _kindest_ to Nannerl either, often stopped her from doing things she loved because they were ‘unbecoming’ or ‘unladylike’. But with Wolfgang… Oh, Wolfgang was not like Nannerl. No, he could not cut his losses, bow his head, and make just himself proud in private. He could not write only in the middle of the night, then run and play when their father was not looking.

He could not separate their father’s approval and his own talent or self-worth. Even as a child, Wolfgang wanted hell or glory, and absolutely nothing in-between.

So Wolfgang worked hard, vain attempt after vain attempt to earn their father’s approval. He stayed inside always, never _not_ glued to his work, so unlike other little boys. He worked himself sick on several occasions, and Nannerl just watched. What else could she do?

What could she do when even their father sat back and watched as well? He watched Wolfgang rip himself apart, dismissive and cold, convinced that, one day, Wolfgang would write something amazing. He just _knew_ that Wolfgang would, as he always said, “ _Do something with that greater talent, let it be known_.”

Nannerl supposes that Figaro is what Wolfgang has done, but look where that has gotten them. Where that has gotten _him_.

Even when Wolfgang wins, he loses.

And he is dead, just as their father is.

Well, at least, that is what one of the guards told Nannerl in a panicked voice as he ushered her from her room, just after startling her half to death by all but knocking the door in. He led her down the long hall, not giving her time to do anything but be dragged along, in her stockinged feet, listening to the terrible news.

He didn’t take note of Nannerl's mortified expression, instead lead her to a room where she would be safe. If he intended to keep her from panicking too, he did a horrible job. But before she could even ask what exactly was going on, he told her:

There had been an intruder in the castle, as assassin from the other kingdom, the guard said. The assassin came to kill her father, and told the king, as he did, that the prince had been assassinated, too. The intruder got away before the guards could catch him, none of them close enough to her father to get there in time.

Oh, her father liked to be alone more frequently than not, now, free of the guards’ watchful stares. Since her mother died, her father liked to be _alone_. Who knew that would be his downfall?

The guards did not know if there were any more intruders either, but before he bled out, her father told them to hide her away.

Nannerl was to be hidden away, just in case. She was to be hidden away because, in the event of his death, she was to become queen.

Riffs in human passion. The rebellion of a free man.

Yes, she is free, but she is alone now, too.

Nannerl sits in the dark room, illuminated only by a candlelight, a letter from her father in her hand. It was to be given to her in the event of his death, the event of his _death_. She cannot wrap her head around it, nor around what she reads on the page. 

Wolfgang was never truly sick, was he? Her father does not outright say it in the letter, but the words tell her otherwise. They say that she is better fit to be ruler, that Wolfgang lets his emotions get the best of him far too often. That he _had_ to do _something_ , that he was worried, and did not believe that Wolfgang could run the kingdom any better than a child.

It is unfair— Wolfgang was _only_ a child.

He was only a child.

Nannerl cries, pulls the letter to her chest and hugs it. It is no mother nor father, and it is certainly not a brother— hell, it is not even a _good_ letter, but it is the only comfort she has right now. Trapped, though never the way Wolfgang was. It is _unfair_.

Oh, how she wishes to see her brother’s face one last time. Smiling, lively, as bright as a star. Has he changed even a bit in all these years? And if she saw him and apologized, would he accept it?

She will never know now, of course, but it doesn’t stop her from imagining it. From imagining his smile, his bright eyes, her lips on his forehead, or perhaps his lips on _her_ forehead. How tall is he now, and why is she torturing herself wondering?

The guards come soon enough, tug her from these thoughts. She hadn't even realized that, eventually, she'd stopped crying.

They tell her that the kingdom is clear of intruders, but ask if she will please allow them to stay near her. Unlike her father, Nannerl does not mind the guards’ watching eyes, and she would rather not argue. In fact, it is better that she get used to eyes on her at almost all times now.

Queen. She is the _queen_.

Nannerl stands slowly and nods in agreement, her face now dry. She simply folds the letter and puts it in her pocket, not needing to look at its secrets any longer. She takes a step forward to leave the room, but pauses, looking back at the candle on the desk.

She takes a deep breath, then leans over and blows it out.

~

Mozart wanted to sit in front again, of course. Salieri is beginning to get the impression that he just likes to press his ass up against him, the little brat.

Still, Salieri allows him, even lets Mozart put his hands over his own as he holds the reins, to pretend like Mozart is doing something.

Maybe once this is all said and done, Salieri can teach Mozart how to _really_ ride a horse. He had no plans, after all. Perhaps he should get to making some.

He’s sure that Horselieri doesn’t mind him going back on his word of releasing him, either. He can’t release the horse into the wild now, no. Mozart adores him, and, well, Horselieri seems to like Mozart, too. Besides, being pampered by a prince sounds way better than being eaten by a pack of wolves, anyway.

Salieri thinks of what else they can do. Again, he had no plans, and he should come up with at least a few things in the meantime. The castle is far off, gives Salieri what seems like all the time in the world to think of things to do with Mozart.

He is no hopeless romantic, of course, nor is he a poet. But he can’t help but think about walking through more meadows with Mozart, tucking more flowers into his hair. Maybe even composing a piece with him— oh, it has been so long since Salieri has touched music.

And now, it seems, music has touched him.

Maybe he is a bit of a poet. Maybe he is just hopelessly in love. He cannot believe the kind of person he is now, but perhaps that is just what happens when you step into the sun.

Oh, it is so warm, especially when Mozart leans back on him, squeezes his hands. Salieri can’t help but lean in, let his lips brush against Mozart’s hair.

They are just a little ways off the castle when Salieri sees another horse and rider galloping towards them. Truthfully, he didn’t expect to see anyone— in fact, he took this route because he was _sure_ he wouldn’t see another soul.

But as the rider gets closer, as they both slow to a stop, Salieri figures out _exactly_ what is going on.

“Salieri.” The rider says, hopping off of his horse. “Where have you been?”

Another assassin from his kingdom. Da Ponte, Lorenzo da Ponte. Rosenberg must have assumed that he, himself, had finished the job of ending Mozart’s life and was off moping. That was what Salieri did after finishing a job usually, anyway. He’d duck his head into a bar and stay far away from work or any other place that he’d have to say more than a few words in.

He’d let the guilt eat at him for a day or five after having ended someone else's life. No before, no— Salieri had no room for pity, but he had plenty of room for self-reproach and shame. He only felt guilt _after_. Remorse, and not just for what he’d done, no, but for the person he was. Not fidgeting, but staying still, and quiet, and _angry_ at no one but himself. It is almost hard to believe that was his life before, but— oh, it was, wasn’t it?

God, it already all feels so far away, so separated from him. So quickly, and in such little time— Mozart really is an angel isn’t he? How else could he make Salieri feel like the sun is something that he composed just for him, and that maybe, just maybe, Salieri could be someone worth composing the sun for?

Loving Mozart has almost made him forget that he hates _himself_.

Almost. Almost, _of course_. That hatred still lingers, rakes its dark claws through him, but— God, Mozart makes him _hopeful_ , the most hopeful he has ever felt. He makes Salieri believe that it will get better, and that those dark claws will be reduced to nothing more than fingers. Not that they will vanish completely, no— he doesn’t know if any amount of love could do _that_ — but that they will only be capable of gently prodding at him on bad days.

Bad days, which he plans, for once, to spend _living_ , and not whatever the hell he was doing before. Living, and awake, and with _Mozart_.

It only poses one problem, and that problem is the man who sits on his horse in front of them. Da Ponte— Rosenberg has sent him to finish the job, hasn’t he? To finish off the Mozart family, and, oh, there is blood on da Ponte’s sword.

Salieri considers. He could try to make a break for it, but that would only look more suspicious. From the looks of it, da Ponte has not pieced together that Mozart is the prince. He could get away with this, yes. They could go to the castle, but that still leaves the issue of Mozart’s family.

The blood on da Ponte’s sword is _someone’s_ , of course.

Salieri closes his eyes for a moment, doesn’t let his mind linger back to Mozart’s sister for more than a moment before he is already climbing off of Horselieri to face da Ponte.

Mozart hops off, too, much to Salieri’s dismay. Mozart doesn’t even seem to know what is going on; Salieri wishes he could tell him to just keep his mouth shut for once without da Ponte overhearing, but it doesn’t seem plausible.

“I have been… around.” Salieri starts, dismissive. “And you, da Ponte?”

“I got sent out to pick up your slack, Salieri.” Da Ponte huffs, motioning towards the palace. They are still dangerously close, considering what da Ponte has just done, but he only laughs, cold, and shakes his head. “I should run, but— I suppose I should also thank you. That king was a real dick, Salieri. Nobody likes this job, but days like these make me not _hate_ it.”

Salieri sucks in a breath, and he hopes that Mozart did not pick up on all of that. But when he looks at Mozart, he knows he did. Mozart looks concerned, maybe a little horrified. 

“Oh,” Da Ponte begins, and Salieri holds his breath. “By the way, who is this guy?” He motions to Mozart, and Salieri lets the breath go, thankful that da Ponte is absolutely terrible at picking up on anything.

“ _Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart_.” Mozart says on an exhale, and Salieri feels his mouth go dry.

Da Ponte’s smirk drops. First, he focuses his eyes on Mozart, then at Salieri, completely unamused. He scoffs. “…Are you kidding me?”

“Da Ponte.” Salieri starts, stern, but da Ponte’s sword is already unsheathed. Salieri steps forward, pulls out his own, and it is not long before it is clacking against da Ponte’s in defense.

“What the _fuck_ are doing, Salieri?” Da Ponte shouts, thrusts his sword another way, only for Salieri to block him again. “What are you _thinking_? You were supposed to _kill_ him, and you’re off riding around with him on your horse!”

Salieri doesn’t respond— how could he? Da Ponte isn’t exactly the most faithful to the king, but he would never do _this_ , go about his orders _this_ terribly. There is nothing that Salieri could say that would make da Ponte understand— Hell, he, himself, doesn’t even fully understand. Right now, there are only two things that he is absolutely sure of:

The first is that he loves Mozart, perhaps more than he should already, but he cannot help it. And the second is that there is no way on Earth that he is letting da Ponte rip Mozart away from him. No, he will need to pry him from Salieri’s cold, dead hands.

“It is _treason_ , Salieri.” Da Ponte tries, “Rosenberg will—”

“I do not care what Rosenberg will do.” Salieri says, voice surprisingly calm, even to himself, as he uses his sword to force da Ponte backwards. “I have _never_ cared what he could do to me. You know as well as I do that I would not die for him, for that kingdom.”

It is true; if Salieri had to choose between Rosenberg’s head and his own, he would pick his own. There has never been a doubt about it. In a river full of vipers, he is one all the same.

But now he has something that he wants to protect. Not Rosenberg, not the kingdom. He finally has a reason to tear himself away from snake-infested waters, to drag himself onto the shore and sink his teeth into the first apple he sees. His eyes have been opened, and that reason is Mozart.

Da Ponte stumbles backwards, and Salieri rushes forward. His sword is already at da Ponte’s throat when he feels a gentle hand rest on his arm.

“Mozart, stand back.” Salieri says, voice quiet, and he realizes for the first time that he is _panting_. He doesn’t take his eyes from da Ponte, who is staring right back at him, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“Please don’t kill him.” Mozart whispers, and it is so _soft_ , so heavenly.

Salieri falters. Of course— of course Mozart would want him to spare da Ponte. He would not expect anything else. He keeps his sword there, though, lets Mozart keep talking.

Mozart’s hand strokes up Salieri’s upper arm, and he leans forward, his forehead on Salieri’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see it, Salieri. Blood… It makes me afraid. And I know… I know that _you_ will be sad if you do it.”

Salieri swallows. Mozart is right, and he knows it. They both do, but he keeps glaring at da Ponte, doesn’t want _him_ to know, too.

“You are lucky the prince is a merciful one.” Salieri tells da Ponte. “I would have killed you and left your body for the wolves.” He pulls his sword away and takes a step back, Mozart moving away from his shoulder as well. “You will tell Rosenberg that the prince is dead, and you will not tell him of this encounter.”

Da Ponte swallows, and he gives Salieri a little nod. He switches his position slowly, kneeling in front of the two of them instead.

Salieri lets go of the breath he was holding again, watches the way da Ponte catches his own.

“I am not like you, Salieri.” Da Ponte says quietly, then sneers at him, “I am less selfish, I think.” He closes his eyes, doesn’t speak for a moment. “And I _am_ willing to die for my kingdom.”

Da Ponte stands, arm already thrusting forward before Salieri can stop him, and—

His sword slices through Mozart so _easily_ , impaling him straight through the stomach.

Mozart does little more than gasp, stumbling back as da Ponte yanks his sword out of him.

And—

And there is _so_ much blood. Mozart has that terrified look on his face, the same one that he did when Salieri first met him and pulled his sword on him. Afraid, vulnerable— oh, it is not a good look on him.

Did Salieri ever really put that look on his face?

Mozart drops to the ground, hands scrambling to cover the wound. He is already crying.

He is crying. He is crying, of course he is crying, and Salieri—

He does not hesitate, has nothing else to lose. He tears through da Ponte with his own sword, out of anger, out of sadness. Mozart _trusted_ da Ponte, he saved him. Mozart spared da Ponte when Salieri would not have.

So sweet, so kind-hearted. Da Ponte did not deserve his kindness, and that is all Salieri can think about as he pulls his sword out with a twist, shoves it in again.

He hears the sound da Ponte makes, but he doesn’t listen. Hell, he isn’t even sure if he _does_ hear it, but he knows it must be there. It must be, oh—

Salieri can’t focus, his head buzzing. Da Ponte might already be dead for all he knows, but he wants to do more, wants to hurt him more.

And he _should_ do more. He has no mercy left, not for da Ponte. No, he has never had any, not by his own hand. Mozart was all of his mercy, every kind thought. And da Ponte did not deserve a single one. He should do _more_.

But Mozart is _dying_ , and this time, it is real. There is no build up, no day for them to waste dancing or kissing or making love in their inn room. There is only now, and it is not enough.

So, Salieri does not waste any more time on da Ponte, even leaves his sword impaled in da Ponte's bleeding chest— he does not need it anymore.

Instead, he rushes over to Mozart’s side, falls to his knees beside him. He drags Mozart up, Mozart’s body partially in his lap, his blood turning the dirt below into mud. Mozart’s hands are still over his wound, and he is _crying_ , pained little gasps spilling past his lips as he tries to hide his face in Salieri’s chest.

Salieri is overcome with _pity_ , the kind that he has never had enough of to spare before— and _grief_. Oh, Mozart does not deserve this. He has never deserved any of this.

He is an angel, doesn’t he know?

“Wolfgang.” Salieri says, and as foreign as the name feels on his tongue, it feels _right_ , too. “Oh, Wolfgang. I am so _sorry_.”

Mozart looks at him, looks at him the same way that he has always looked at him. As if Salieri has never done anything wrong—

No, no. That is not right.

Mozart looks at Salieri as if he can see every wrong that Salieri has ever done, as if Salieri has leaned down and confessed to him every terrible act he has committed. And Mozart _loves_ him anyway. Oh, he loves him _anyway_ , despite it all, despite knowing what kind of person Salieri truly is.

And Mozart does not even give Salieri the penance which he knows he deserves. Perhaps Mozart thinks that this is penance enough. Perhaps Mozart has pity on him, perhaps he is just that kind.

Salieri has never been one for tears. He does not cry for himself, certainly does not cry for others. Selfish, and bitter. He is a mean person, has benefitted from the ruin of others time and time again, has stepped on whomever he could just to work his way up to where he is today.

But none of it seems to matter anymore. Not when Mozart is dying in his arms, looking at Salieri as if he will be the last thing that Mozart will ever see. And oh, he just might be.

Salieri only realizes that he is crying when a tear hits Mozart’s cheek, when Mozart brings one hand up to wipe Salieri’s tears away.

It is just like him. It is so very like Mozart to comfort him right now, even when Mozart is the one who needs it, who deserves it.

“I love you, Antonio.” Mozart says, and it _startles_ Salieri.

He looks at Mozart’s face, and he can’t help the sound he makes, between a chuckle and a sob when he realizes that Mozart is smiling. Soft and sweet, tearful and honest.

Salieri has never been able to understand it. He can’t fathom why Mozart smiles, even with the knowledge that he is dying, that the world is like this, that things are _bad_ and people are _cruel_ and that he should not always act so kindly.

But God, that is who Mozart is. A little troublemaker, yes, but kind, despite the way the world has treated him. Forgiving, loving. Salieri would not have him any other way. No, he…

“I love you, Wolfgang.” Salieri says, caressing Mozart’s face. Oh, he doesn’t want to think about how this is the end, how this may be the last time that he gets to hold Mozart like this.

Salieri— oh, he’d burn _everything_ to the ground for just one caress.

“I have never… I have never claimed to be a good man, Wolfgang, nor have I ever claimed to be one deserving of the love in which you have given me.” Salieri strokes Mozart’s cheek, smiles weakly at the way glitter sticks to his face, even now. It does not even look out of place— Mozart glows so brilliantly, doesn’t he _know_?

Salieri swallows hard. “But I do love you. I do.” His voice wavers, too vulnerable for his own liking, and God, he wants to duck his face away, but now is not the time to be a coward. Not when Mozart lays before him, bleeding out and still loving him, despite it all.

“I am so _sorry_ , Wolfgang. I wanted to make sure that your last day was the best day of your life.” He takes a deep breath, shaky, “After we found out that you would not die from simply going outside, oh … I did not expect your last day to come so _soon_.” 

He holds Mozart’s hand, brings it to his lips to kiss. “I am certainly no Prince Charming. I am not even a knight. But my heart is yours.” Salieri squeezes Mozart’s hand. “My heart is _yours_.”

“And mine is yours.” Mozart says, fast, as if it is getting hard for him to speak. It must be. “We will meet again, you know? And next time it will be better.”

Salieri nods quickly. “Yes, Wolfgang. We will, and we’ll understand where we come from, and I… _I_ will be better.”

Mozart lets out a soft chuckle, a little breath, and Salieri is holding his own breath on each one of Mozart’s. He doesn’t know which will be Mozart’s last, but Mozart, of course, keeps talking.

“Oh… Oh, Antonio.” He says, “You have made these last two days the best of my life. Truly. If you get any better than this, I don’t know what I will do with you.” His head leans against Salieri more, his voice more of a mumble. “In all honestly, I only have one regret, and it is not something either of us could control.” He stammers a bit, shudders. “I just wish I could see my sister, one last time.”

Salieri pauses. Mozart’s sister—

He remembers her dress, the bounce in her step, that nurturing look on her face, and the way she reminded him of his own brother. He looks to da Ponte’s body, then back at Mozart, thoughts racing.

The kingdom is not too far off, and if da Ponte had spared Mozart’s sister, if he’d only killed Mozart’s father…

She might still be there. The two of them could say goodbye. Horselieri is still close by, not too far from where they are settled in the grass, near da Ponte’s horse. If Mozart could hold on just long enough, Salieri could get him to the castle.

And Salieri owes Mozart this. He owes both Mozart _and_ Mozart’s sister this. His first good deed by his own will, probably, and likely his last, too.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Salieri scoops Mozart up and stands. He knows that he is getting Mozart’s blood all over him, and that they are both a mess, but it is not important.

No, what is important is getting him to his sister, and quickly.

“Wolfgang, can you hold on?” Salieri asks, hurrying over to his horse.

Mozart mumbles something incoherent back. Worrying, yes, but Salieri is still buzzing with adrenaline. He takes it as a yes, and sets Mozart on top of Horselieri.

Mozart stays upright for a moment, then buckles forward, holding his stomach. He doesn’t sway to either side, though, which is what Salieri was worried about.

Salieri is about to hop on his horse as well when he sees da Ponte’s horse from the corner of his eye.

…Jesus Christ. This is the kind of person he is, isn’t he?

Quickly, Salieri runs over to da Ponte’s horse and tugs him over by the reins. “Come on, Horsezart.” He says as he ties the other horse to Horselieri. He can gallop alongside by them, get into the safety of the kingdom so he doesn’t get eaten by wolves out here.

“Horsezart.” Salieri hears Mozart repeat, and he sounds like he wants to laugh.

Salieri smiles, weakly— oh, he wants Mozart to laugh, too. Next time, next time. He reminds himself of Mozart’s words, then hops on his horse and grabs the reigns.

He allows Mozart to lean back on him, and one of Mozart’s bloody hands finds his. Almost… like he is doing something.

And he _does_ do something— specifically, to Salieri’s heart.

Salieri races to the kingdom, as fast as he knows his horse can go. Not a word is spoken between himself and Mozart besides him gently reminding Mozart to stay awake and Mozart muttering things Salieri can’t quite make out.

He doesn’t realize how close they are to the kingdom until they are already there at the gates. The guards stop him, of course, and as much as Salieri wants to just trample them over with his horses, he knows that it would be a better idea to cooperate. It will go by faster, safer, and so Salieri hops off of Horselieri .

Mozart all but falls into his arms, and Salieri holds him, one arm around his back the other under his knees. He steps closer to the guards, and they all look confused, some of them already grabbing the hilts of their swords. 

Salieri gets his words out before any of them can get theirs in. “This is the prince.” Salieri says, absolutely _hating_ how panicked he knows his voice is, “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I’ve brought the prince.”

The guards look at each other, confusion across their features. One of them mutters for another to go ahead first, quickly, to tell the queen, and Salieri feels the way Mozart shifts in his arms.

The _queen_. So Mozart’s sister is alive. She is _alive_.

Salieri is so relieved he could cry.

But, he doesn’t. No, instead Salieri looks to the guards desperately. One of them has pity, shakes his head and tells Salieri to follow him.

He does, and they rush up the steps of the castle.

The moment they get through the front doors, Mozart’s sister is already hurrying down the grand staircase. She looks every single emotion between excitement and panic, even kicks off her shoes as she rushes down the stairs to get to them faster.

She stands in front of Salieri, in a black dress, now, but her eyes as bright as—

Well, as bright as Mozart’s.

And his brother, Francesco’s, too. Oh—

Salieri’s heart _aches_ for her, especially when she tears up. Salieri knows this pain, wishes he could reach out and soothe her, but how could he?

He just stays quiet, watches as she leans over to see her brother’s face. Mozart tilts his head towards her too, slow, his eyes fluttering open. His breath is shaky, but he talks despite it all. 

“Nannerl.” Mozart murmurs, and _of course_ , he offers her a smile.

“Wolfgang.” Nannerl lets out a sob, caressing his face. She looks at her brother as though she has never seen him before, and, hell, she likely hasn’t seen him in _years_. Salieri wonders if she even had any idea what he looked like now.

Probably not, and yet she looks at him with loves him already, as though she has loved him her whole life.

And she has, hasn’t she? Yes, she _is_ a Mozart.

“What happened to him?” Nannerl asks Salieri, abrupt and pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Da Ponte—” Salieri starts, then realizes that she would not understand that. She needs the whole story, so he needs to start from the beginning. “A few days ago, I was sent to—”

Nannerl shakes her head. “No, no. A story will have to wait.” She looks over at one of the guards, shouts for them to get a doctor, that _no_ , she does not _care_ how much it costs, and it better be the best damn doctor they can find. She looks back at Salieri, then down at Mozart’s face.

She swallows hard, then quickly leads Salieri to what he assumes is the living room. She tosses the extra pillows away from the couch, and Salieri lays Mozart down on it.

“Nan…” Mozart mumbles, garbled. “Nannerl, I’m going to ruin the cushions.”

Nannerl laughs, sudden and tearful. “Wolfgang.” She says, shaking her head. “They were ugly, anyway. Father had horrible taste— didn’t you see the wig he wore?”

Mozart smiles at her, chuckles weakly, but oh, it looks like it hurts. Nannerl takes one of his hands and squeezes it.

“Death is here, isn’t it?” Mozart asks her. “Oh, I can taste it upon my lips.”

Nannerl shakes her head. “Don’t say that, Wolfgang.”

Salieri stands aside, feeling uncomfortable and perhaps a little awkward. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say. He has never been the one to stand around and grieve as one dies. No, typically he is the one who _caused_ it, and he is already running away before the guilt can catch him, before he can see someone else grieving for the life he’s just taken.

He does not want to imagine that scenes similar to this one have happened each time he has completed his duties. Guiltily, he does not want to imagine that he has caused this sort of suffering time and time again.

Because of that, he does not know how to help, how to deal with all of these foreign emotions. His chest hurts, and his eyes sting, and Mozart’s words play in his head over and over. He wants to believe them, that they _will_ meet again, and next time—

Next time they _can_ have a fairytale ending.

But right now, he does not know how to _help_. There is nothing he can do, absolutely nothing but stand and wait. His skin crawls with it, with the knowledge that this is completely out of his control, especially when Mozart starts to just let his head lull to one side, when Nannerl is no longer unable to hold back her sobs, begging Mozart to _please_ hold on just a little bit longer.

Just like on the ride to the castle, time seems to move so oddly when the doctor arrives.

Salieri and Nannerl are all but pushed aside, forced to sit a ways away and wait.

And wait, and wait, and wait.

While they wait, Nannerl asks him for his name first, then, to tell her the story. She wants to know what happened.

Salieri almost wants to lie to her, to tell her that he did this himself. It would likely end with her having him hanged, and in all honesty, that fate almost seems ideal.

But... Salieri has been touched by Mozart now. He cannot help but be a little idealistic and hold onto the slim possibility that the doctor could save Mozart’s life.

“Antonio Salieri. I am— I am not from here.” He admits. “My king sent me here to kill Mozart for composing The Marriage of Figaro. It has planted the seeds of revolution in our kingdom, and he believed that if Mozart were dead, these ideas would die with him.” He bites his lip, recalling his own thoughts on Mozart before this, too.

My, how they have changed. He spares the doctor a glance, unable to see Mozart’s face from here.

“After following your postman and finding the tower, I attempted to kill him myself,” Salieri continues, “But he begged me to take him into town first. He told me that he was sick, and he’d die anyway. I…” He laughs weakly, shaking his head. “I suppose I got much more than I bargained for. I fell in love with your brother.” He blushes a bit, furrows his brow, then continues, “The next morning, we realized that he would not die from being outside, and he asked me to bring him here. He wanted to see you and your father again, and I agreed. But on the way here, we ran into the assassin who killed your father, and he—”

Salieri takes a deep breath, ducking his head down in shame. He does not like this, does not care one bit for the amount of vulnerability he is showing. But he feels like he _can_ , in front of Mozart’s sister, in front of _Nannerl_.

“I killed the other assassin, da Ponte. Mozart told me through tears that he wished to see you, once last time, and so I brought him here.” He finishes. 

Nannerl looks at him for a long moment, then places her hand on top of his.

“How can I repay you?” She asks, then looks embarrassed at the incredulous look Salieri knows he must have given her. She blushes, shakes her head. “You gave up everything for my brother, and you brought him back to me. Even if he…” She looks at Mozart, worries her lip. “Salieri, you were brave and selfless and... And he loved you too, didn’t he?”

Salieri looks at her, then slowly, carefully, squeezes her hand. “…That is what he told me, yes.” He mumbles, then takes a deep breath, “Personally, I have no idea how he does it, but I am inclined to believe him when he says he does.”

Nannerl giggles, soft and still sad. She keeps one hand in Salieri’s, holding it tight as if that will somehow ensure that her brother will make it out of this alive.

Salieri knows it won’t; truthfully, they are asking for a miracle, and no matter how tight Nannerl holds his hand, it will not change whatever the course of the next few hours will be. Salieri knows that, and yet—

He squeezes Nannerl’s hand back, holds it just as tight.

~

Mozart is almost positive he is dead when he wakes up. The room is just edging on too bright for his sleepy eyes, and oh, it almost looks like heaven. The sun peers up through the windows, rising in the east and haloing the heads of—

Oh, Nannerl and Salieri. They look like angels, both of them asleep. Hand in loveable hand, and Nannerl is _drooling_ on Salieri’s shoulder.

This could be heaven, yes. But the two of them were still alive the last time Mozart checked, and he supposes that means he is, too. Surely, if he examined the room further, he’d be able to spot a doctor waiting somewhere too, probably asleep as well, but he can’t pull his eyes from Salieri and Nannerl.

His eyes, glossing up now, stay locked on the two of them until he has to blink away tears, smiling and overcome with love. Love and gratitude, and Mozart knows he must have done something right. Why else would he still be here?

He brings one hand up to wipe at the tears. He would laugh at the scene too, but he doesn’t quite trust that it won’t hurt. No, he doesn’t even trust speaking just yet, so he stays silent.

Except for a little sniffle, which he cannot help.

Salieri’s eyes shoot open, and Mozart jolts at it. Did he not sleep at all?

“Wolfgang.” Salieri whispers, expression full of worry and relief and— oh, Mozart does not see that look often, but he thinks that it is _love_.

Salieri removes himself from Nannerl carefully, slipping his fingers away and getting up slowly. He lowers Nannerl onto the couch, onto a pillow. She stirs, but she doesn’t wake.

As soon as she is settled, Salieri crosses the room and kneels beside Mozart. He takes Mozart’s hand and holds it tight, looks as though he is simply making sure that Mozart is really alive.

Seemingly satisfied, Salieri brings Mozart’s hand to his lips like he will kiss it. He pauses first, looks to Mozart as if to ask permission.

Mozart nods as fast as he can without hurting himself, his face already heating up.

Salieri kisses Mozart’s hand, then kisses it again. He peppers kisses to each of Mozart’s knuckles, then up the back of his hand, his arm. He reaches Mozart’s lips, presses a kiss there, and Mozart grins into it.

“We meet again.” Mozart murmurs, lips brushing against Salieri’s.

Salieri sits up, blushing and taken aback. Then, he laughs, abrupt and tearful, “I was never gone, Wolfgang.” He says. “But if this is our second chance, then I will gladly take it.”

Mozart chuckles, and, just as he suspected, it hurts. He makes a little grumbling noise, and Salieri scoots in, his face painted with worry.

“Take it easy, Wolfgang.” He says, caressing Mozart’s face. “…You’re alive.”

“I am.” Mozart breathes out. He smiles at Salieri, soft and admiring.

As he looks at Salieri’s face, he tries to recall every moment the two of them have shared before this. He has no doubt about it now, no. They have both been locked away their whole lives, trapped in towers of their own. And now Salieri is here before him, his hand in Mozart’s, his heart open and laid bare.

And Mozart is so _proud_ of him, but when he tries to say it, the words catch.

He can’t express those feelings quite yet, for they are true for himself, too, and he is just not ready. One day, Mozart _will_ be ready, though, and he will tell Salieri all of this. Hopefully sometime soon, in the comfort and warmth of the shared bed they will have, in the dark of their room and tangled together. He will whisper all of this into Salieri’s ear, to him and only him, and he will trust that Salieri will hold him though it and not let him go.

Yes, one day, he will come to terms with the life he has lead up to now. They both will, but today is not that day. 

No, today is the first day of the rest of their lives. The rest of their lives, and now, they _both_ get to truly live until they die.

He simply cannot get all those words out, though. So instead, he caresses Salieri’s face, gets choked up as he adds all he _can_ add, needing to let Salieri know that he is just as _alive_ as Mozart is.

“And so are _you_.”

Salieri pauses again. He looks confused for a moment, then realization flashes in his eyes before the tears that he was likely holding back there just fall. He ducks his head down, covers his face with one hand but presses the other into Mozart’s.

Mozart squeezes Salieri’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He presses kisses to Salieri’s knuckles as the two of them just cry together. It seems to be what Salieri needs right now anyway, so Mozart makes no movement to shush him, nor does Salieri make any movement to do so either.

Before long, Salieri has scooted closer, his hands on Mozart’s face and the back of his neck. Their foreheads press together, and Salieri kisses him. He kisses him and kisses him, tearful and smiling, and Mozart meets each and every single one of them.

~

By the time Nannerl has woken up, the two of them have already settled down, more or less. She is ecstatic to see Mozart, half sitting up now, smiling and _alive_. They have so much to catch up on, and she tells him so.

And he is, of course, excited. Nannerl is everything he expected her to be and then some. He has had a spot in his heart for her his whole life, and now that she is here to fill it herself, he never wants to be too far apart again.

And she is the queen— oh, she makes a lovely queen.

Rightfully, she tells him, the crown is his. First born son and prodigy child, but he does not want it. He has never wanted the crown or a kingdom or a sibling rivalry over either of those things. All Mozart has ever wanted was his family, plain and simple, and to be able to compose music.

His father is gone, and as is his mother. Their memories linger, and yes, they sting, especially those of his father. But Salieri tells him that time heals all wounds. Time, and talking, and working through these things together.

It is scary, but Mozart believes him, for both the wounds in his heart and the wound in his stomach. He has no reason not to believe that they will heal in due time. Due time, and hands over his ears, his head pressed to Salieri’s chest when it is all just a bit too much.

It will heal. Slowly, but surely.

And the ideas of revolution, it seems, die with the king. As fast as they arose and for all the trouble they caused, they seem to vanish overnight. There is no more hear-say about a war, and as soon as he has healed enough, the kingdom is allowed to rejoice over the return of their prince.

Their prince, their prince— Mozart needs to get used to hearing that.

Mozart has really never seen the faces of any of kingdom’s citizens, and none of them recognize him any more than he recognizes them. His crown is brought back to him, placed on his head by Nannerl before he is allowed to take his seat at her right side.

The throne is odd each time he has to sit on it, and his crown keeps slipping. He is simply too bouncy, too fidgety. Truthfully, he isn’t sure if this is the best place for him. Of course, he is not there _often_ , but each time only makes him more restless. He wants something else, something more _him_.

Yes, he would much more like to be with the _orchestra_ , preferably in the front, and composing. With Salieri’s coaxing, he decides to tell Nannerl, a little embarrassed at the amount of time it takes him to do it, but they are relearning each other, after all.

And Nannerl is sweet about it, smiles at his request. She agrees, but under one condition. A condition, yes, one that will keep him safe even when he is not under her guards’ watchful eyes.

The sword comes down onto Salieri’s shoulder as he kneels before Nannerl’s throne. Who knew that they would make a knight of him after all?

He bows his head, swears that he will always protect Mozart.

Tradition, yes, but it still makes Mozart’s heart leap in his chest. Salieri had admitted to being nervous before this, told Mozart that he wasn’t quite sure if he could protect him the way he wanted to. Salieri, again, hadn’t planned this far, and he was afraid. Afraid, but willing to serve him, to spend his days by Mozart’s side and making sure that he is always safe.

For Mozart, for Nannerl, and for himself.

And Mozart simply tells him that he knows he can do it. That he has faith in him— oh, he has _always_ had faith in him.

And he always, always will.

Perhaps Salieri was always meant to be a knight, anyway. He certainly has the looks for one.

Mozart tells him this, too, after the ceremony is done. They are walking back to Mozart’s room, neither of them too interested in staying for the after party or, perhaps, just more interested in being alone together.

Salieri only laughs, shakes his head. He tells Mozart that, truthfully, he _may_ look like a knight— similar to the way that Mozart looks like a husband.

Mozart laughs at first, then flushes. 

“Really?” Mozart can’t help but ask, pausing on a step as they make their way up the stairs, “You’re serious?”

Salieri half-laughs, half-scoffs at that, “Of course I’m serious,” He tells him, but he is already flustered, too. He pauses a step above Mozart, looks back at him. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Mozart grins, “A knight and a husband— how curious!”

Salieri laughs, shaking his head. He gives Mozart a playful shove before pulling him in again and kissing his lips.

~

It has probably been a little over a year since Salieri had first laid eyes on Mozart. Since he first heard Mozart on the piano in his tower, since he first looked into Mozart’s big, bright eyes.

Now, Salieri gets to wake up to his face every morning. Mozart’s sweet, angelic face, and that dumb extra-long strand of hair on his cheek that he refuses to cut even now. He gets to live with Mozart’s silly little quirks, his avoidance of his princely duties, and his overworking on musical pieces that sounded _wonderful_ two edits ago, of course.

Mozart has brought a lot of things into his life— music, a mutual understanding, and, oh as cheesy as it sounds, _love_.

All things that Salieri had convinced himself he was okay with never having, now wrap themselves around him just as Mozart’s arms do, press into his heart like Mozart’s cheek against his chest late at night.

Salieri has stepped into the sun, and, oh, it is so warm. It is almost hard now to believe that there was ever a time where the sun was nowhere to be found, now that it kisses his face every morning, coaxing him out of bed.

They are to take a trip today, and perhaps that is why Salieri is feeling extra sentimental. Mozart begged him to be up _early_ , even got up early himself.

The trip, Mozart had promised, was just for them. It was to be special, though he would not answer when Salieri would ask him why. Salieri figures it is one of those ‘just because’ kind of things— Mozart is a spontaneous man, after all.

After breakfast, Mozart tells Nannerl goodbye, and she giggles, obviously in on whatever Mozart has planned. The little schemers, they are. Salieri would not trade them for the world.

Once their goodbyes are said, Mozart leads Salieri out of the castle and to the road out front. There is a carriage waiting, and—

The carriage is being pulled by two horses, both of them awfully familiar. Salieri can’t help but laugh at it— Horselieri and Horsegang-zart, aren’t they? They look well-groomed, well-fed. Oh, Mozart really does love them, doesn’t he?

Good— they love him, too.

“C’mon.” Mozart giggles, hurrying towards the carriage. He stands on the step of it, then looks back at Salieri.

Oh, he looks so beautiful— dark hair and princely clothes, though his crown is not on top of his head. He doesn’t need it, anyway, no. The only crown he needs is a halo, for he is an _angel_ , doesn’t he know?

He does— he _must_ know. Salieri tells him every chance that he gets.

Salieri follows Mozart, stands at the bottom of the carriage and looks up at Mozart from where he stands.

“Where are we going?” Salieri asks, tilting his head a bit, but it doesn’t matter. He would follow Mozart _anywhere_ , in the dark, at the end of the world.

“Oh, I was just thinking…” Mozart starts.

“A dangerous pastime, Wolfgang.” Salieri teases, and Mozart laughs out loud. Gorgeous, oh, he is _so_ gorgeous.

“So cruel! What a horrible way to treat your new husband!” Mozart giggles, then turns to the horses, “Are you two hearing this?”

Salieri chuckles, shaking his head. “ _Wolfgang_ —”

Mozart turns back to Salieri, smiling again, but this time it is a bit sheepish. “I was just thinking, Antonio. That maybe it is my turn?”

Salieri cocks a brow. “Your turn?” He asks.

“Yes! My turn,” Mozart nods eagerly, then offers Salieri a hand to help him up onto the carriage, “Let me take you somewhere nice?”

Salieri looks at Mozart’s hand, then looks back up at his face.

Oh, it is so like him, so very _Mozart_ to repeat those words to him now. Reversed this time around, sure, but the sentiment is all there. And they are brighter now, too, more lively and full of love.

Salieri loves him all the same, and they both know damn well that any place is nice as long as they are together. 

And they will be.

So Salieri accepts. He smiles, steps forward, and takes Mozart’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://loperap.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> special thanks to [my boyfriend](https://saluwueri.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this for me. i am so fucking sorry you had to put up with this.


End file.
